


The Ivy Crown

by dayari



Category: Merlin (TV), Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Arthurian, Canon - TV, Fairy Tales, M/M, Magic Revealed, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nature Magic, Post Season 3, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 252,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayari/pseuds/dayari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Crossover with <i>Sir Gawain and the Green Knight</i> and <i>The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle</i>.] Merlin couldn't have picked a worse time to finally tell Arthur about his magic. In the wake of the battle against the immortal army, a strange visitor disrupts the court, calling himself the Green Knight and proposing a test of the court's integrity. Although Uther turns him away, several of Camelot's northern allies end up mysteriously beheaded over the next few months, and Arthur, Merlin and the knights set out to investigate. They encounter more than they'd bargained for on the way—a reckless young boy, a lady in search of a husband, a centuries-old fairytale that holds more than a grain of truth... and a challenge that ends up being more than just a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Summoning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 Merlin Big Bang challenge. For extended credits & author's notes, please see the [LJ masterpost](http://dayari.livejournal.com/127187.html)!

_The ravens have warned him of her coming. His hawks were fast, but it was the ravens who first heard it whispered in the rustle of autumn leaves, who sent their message drifting on the wind with the echoes of their hoarse caws._

 _Her magic is a brilliant flash that he couldn't have missed even if his trusty birds hadn't warned him, though. It's like a pinpoint of brightness in his warm, pulsing dark, except he does not welcome it. Even without light, he hasn't needed eyes to see in a long time._

 _She brushes away the leaves that fall from the trees to land on her shoulders with a slender hand. The stern, wary looks of the forest's oldest stag standing protectively with his nervous flock of deer do not deter her. The undergrowth rustles in outrage the closer she comes to the center of the forest, but although the sky calls down a rainstorm that rages on for days, she refuses to stop._

 _It's then that she finds him, when the bark of the trees surrounding the Chapel glistens with wetness in the early morning sunlight and mist is creeping through the shadowy glade. Here, at the center of his power, her footsteps falter at last, moisture from the dew-speckled grass soaking through the delicate linen of her shoes. The forest has not yet awoken, although the hawks are already circling through the sky overhead, their shrieks shrill and angry in their helplessness. A sharp gust of wind whips through the trees, their ancient trunks groaning out a warning, and his hounds are racing back from their hunt—but when a white, trembling hand reaches out to touch the ivy-covered archway, he knows it is too late._

 _In the courtyard, poorly sheltered by ruined walls, she finds his heart._

 _His real heart has decayed into nothingness ages ago, but the ivy grew anyway, nourished by what little of his blood had been left to seep into the earth. It crept up and up, stretching its vines towards the sunlight that streamed into the Chapel, enveloping the crumbling walls in its green embrace until the stone was all but hidden beneath. She buries her hand deeply, sifting through the ivy until her fingers find just the right stalk to snap, and far, far away, he can hear his dogs begin to howl._

 _The single leaf of ivy begins to glow when she starts to recite the spell; he does not understand the words, not having had a bone of magic in his body even in his lifetime, but he can feel the pull of power. Her face looks eerily corpse-like by the silvery light that pours out of the leaf in her hands, and her eyes shine golden with her chanting._

 _Even after all this time, he can still remember what pain used to feel like, but to his own surprise, it does not hurt to be plucked from the wind's embrace and pulled from the ground. It reminds him of how it felt when one of the ancient oaks had fallen to the ravages of the summer storms—a relentless, patient pull that never let up until the roots had been ripped out, unearthed from the ground like an anchor torn free of a reluctant seabed._

 _The forest stays with him even as bones knit together without his consent, muscle, sinew and skin wrapping him into a breathing cocoon as a fine dusting of hair springs up across the body. He is the water dripping from the leaves, he is the tree roots buried deep, the grass that's greedily sucking moisture out of the damp ground, and the first rise and fall of a chest that stopped moving so long ago sends a mighty gust of wind rushing through the trees. The morning's silence is shattered by the all-encompassing sound of rustling leaves and creaking bark as the trees sway and bend as though saluting him, like a giant lung that expands with the first breath he has taken in an age._

 _It's not his heart that's beating in this new chest, though blood-filled and pulsing with life; his eyes, when he opens them, seem weak and inadequate, all too human after years and years of racing with his hawks on the wind._

 _The witch has stepped back, and he feels a little thrill at the wariness in her gaze, though not for long. Her fingers are curved protectively around the leaf, and her narrowed, calculating eyes tell him all he needs to know. She is well aware of the leaf's power, now that she has bound him with it, shot its little green veins through with the sharp, acrid tang of magic. Although he fell in the war, the ivy was the first to drink his blood, and it has held his soul for an age, while his bones have long since crumbled to dust._

 _Her will is his, he knows, for as long as the spell will hold. The magic has settled into his bones, an unwelcome, though not uncomfortable weight, golden energy in the veins she has twined for him and the heart that is not his. His peace is over—he feels it in the disorienting pull of magic at the back of his mind, in the little jolts that zap down his spine with each brush of her fingertips against the velvety softness of the ivy leaf._

 _A tremulous, satisfied smile curves her lips as she tucks it into her cloak, carefully, well aware that she is holding his soul; she knows that whatever she asks of him, he will have to do. For now, though, he just breathes, and his forest breathes with him._

 

  


 

Arthur was bored.

True, it had been a long time since he'd had the luxury of letting his thoughts drift without any specific destination in mind, and a part of him wanted to just find a quiet corner to enjoy it. But no matter how long it had been since the last time, Arthur knew that the middle of a feast was not the right time and place to space out.

The cooks had made a rich, thick stew of the deer Percival and Elyan had brought home from their hunting trip, but as delicious as it was, Arthur couldn't really appreciate it. The apprehension that had coiled into a hard ball in his gut when his father had announced the first feast since the battle for Camelot was still there, making it hard to swallow even the few gulps of wine he allowed himself. At first he'd just been wary when Uther had tucked in quite enthusiastically and ate more than Arthur had seen him eat in a long time.

But then his father had even exchanged a few words with Geoffrey of Monmouth about whether he thought this year's spring was as far off as the last one, and he'd even seemed to listen when Geoffrey launched into a long explanation about the varying lengths of all the winters he'd recorded in his annals. Arthur had leaned back in his chair, somewhat baffled and not quite ready for relief yet, and finally accredited his father's unusually high spirits to the spiced wine he'd been sipping.

Anything was better than the brooding silences, after all, or the way Uther never so much as looked at the high, ornate chair on his left, but didn't allow it to be taken anyway. A conversation about the weather was a vast improvement by comparison, and the courtiers chattered just a little more animatedly among themselves, the knights' laughs getting progressively less subdued in reaction to their king's lifted mood.

It felt odd not to be on his guard, though, and as if exhausted after a long period of constant strain, boredom seemed like just the right mood for Arthur's mind to lapse into. Although he wasn't hungry anymore, he kept poking at the last of his stew, letting his gaze travel through the hall, but tonight, no worried looks and quickly-hidden glances were directed at his father. Everyone seemed busy eating and drinking and talking, on occasion even humming along to the lively tune the bards were playing.

It could have been like any other of the countless feasts Arthur had seen in Camelot, if it hadn't been for the way everyone was trying too hard not to look at the cracks that still lined the walls, hidden behind brightly-colored tapestries. The bards were playing a little too loudly, the flute's jaunty whistle too quick and shrill for the fiddler, who Arthur could hear trying somewhat desperately to keep up. The hall was brighter than usual, too; all of the chandeliers had been loaded with candles, the torches lining the walls were blazing, and for just a moment Arthur was glad that he wouldn't be the one to scrape dried wax and soot off the floor the next morning.

Servants were flitting to and fro between the tables, pouring more wine into goblets held out by increasingly unsteady hands, removing empty plates and replacing them with more steaming venison. Gwen was hovering near the knights, propping up a basket of fresh bread on her hip, her free hand gesturing animatedly as she talked. Arthur followed her gaze, and the ball of tension in his stomach tightened a little when it landed on Lancelot, although he was not at all surprised.

He held out his goblet without looking, eyes still on the faint flush on Lancelot's cheeks that he knew had nothing to do with the wine. Still, he heard Merlin scramble into a flurry of motion behind him, bumping into the back of Arthur's chair in his haste to follow the unspoken order, and a moment later his goblet grew heavy with the weight of spiced wine.

Arthur didn't say anything when a few red droplets dribbled on his sleeve, although Merlin paused for a second, poised in hopeful silence. Even without looking, Arthur could picture the way he was gripping the pitcher tightly enough to whiten his knuckles in an attempt to still the tremor of his hands. The moment passed, unused, and Merlin slunk back to his position behind Arthur's chair, his silence dejected and oppressive. Arthur recalled the surprised excitement in Merlin's eyes, the _hope_ when he'd been told that he would attend the prince at the feast, and he was well aware that Merlin would have been overjoyed if Arthur had scolded him for getting wine on his favorite shirt. It would have been another shred of normalcy, just as fake as the court's laughing chatter and the merry tune of the bards, but Arthur knew that Merlin would have treasured it like a precious gift.

A surge of old, remembered anger crested up in him at the thought, and he shook his head slightly to dispel it. This wasn't the time to dwell on that, and he blinked to refocus his gaze, searching once more for Lancelot and Gwen in the crowd, but then the silvery sheen of chainmail caught his eye and the memory of Lancelot's blushing smile was forgotten. A guard was walking towards the high table, spear in hand and dodging servants left and right, and judging from his expression, he didn't just want to warm himself up with a cup of cider.

Arthur glanced at his father from the corner of his eye, but Uther was listening to the steward's ramblings about the state of the grain stores and didn't see the guard until he had stopped in front of them, bowing low. Uther nodded to acknowledge the man, and Arthur was relieved to see that the half smile didn't quite slip from his aged features, although he did draw himself up to his full height in his seat. There was a rustle of cloth from behind, and Arthur knew without looking that Merlin had straightened up as well.

"Sire," the guard said, mercifully choosing the one honorific that addressed both Uther and Arthur, although Arthur noticed that his eyes kept straying to him more often than not. "It seems we have a— a guest."

He sounded uncertain, wary, even, and Arthur put down his goblet, thinking, a bit wearily, that whichever magical entity was poised to terrorize Camelot now had picked the worst possible time. The feast had been going well, his father had almost been himself, but of course something _had_ to happen to shatter the unusually bright mood—somehow, Arthur wasn't surprised by this either.

"A guest?" Uther prompted after a moment, just when Arthur had opened his mouth to do the same; he glanced at his father, mildly astonished at his calm tone. Over the past few months, Arthur had become an expert at diverting what was Uther's usual response to the tiniest sign of a threat to his kingdom—more than once, he'd had to dissuade his father from summoning the army to the citadel at the drop of a hat.

But it seemed like the wine had smoothed his nerves more than Gaius' tonics could, although they, at least, granted him a dreamless sleep. By now, some of the courtiers had noticed the guard as well, but they just looked slightly confused, rather than wary. The hall fell progressively silent as the bards finished their song and leaned closer to each other to discuss which tune to play next, and the guard's voice carried farther than it would have under the cover of music.

"He says he's a traveler," the guard said, nervously, and shifted his weight, causing his chainmail to jingle. "I've never seen the likes of him, sire—he's from far away. He says he'll gladly accept your hospitality for the night, if you grant it."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but Uther leaned back in his chair, appeased. "Bring him in, then," he replied, and the guard bowed again with obvious relief before turning away. His father's relaxed state should have brightened Arthur's mood in turn, but right now, it just made him restless. Sure, not _every_ random visitor who passed through Camelot had to be a potential threat, but they hadn't had to deal with any attacks, magical or otherwise, since the battle against Cenred's immortal army. It was hard not to feel apprehensive even about something as insignificant as a traveler.

Shaking his head in annoyance when he realized that his father's unending wariness was rubbing off on him, Arthur sat back as well, taking a calming sip of wine even as he kept his gaze on the door. He imagined he could hear footsteps from the corridor over the hum of chatter that still filled the air, although he knew that was impossible, since the fiddler was beginning to noisily tune his instrument just then. The guard reappeared in the doorway, looking unsure whether to enter the hall again, and finally just stepped aside with an inviting gesture to whoever was waiting behind him.

The first thought that flashed through Arthur's mind, even before he blinked to ensure that his eyes were working properly, was that the stranger didn't look like a traveler—he looked like a knight. Granted, he wore neither armor nor chainmail, and there was no coat of arms on his tunic, but his posture was that of a warrior, the squared shoulders and the straight back. Arthur was a knight himself, and he'd trained enough of them in his day to recognize the seemingly loose, easy gait of a fighter when he saw it. He didn't stop at the doorway to wait to be waved forward by the king, but walked towards them at a slow, easy pace; he didn't lower his eyes to the floor with proper decorum either, but let his gaze travel through the hall, taking in the assembled court.

 _Then_ Arthur blinked, and blinked again, but it seemed that his eyes were not deceiving him, if the similar baffled looks from all around the room were anything to go by. The man was dressed in green— _all_ in green, although Arthur couldn't help but wonder where the hell he'd gotten the bucket of gold that he must have paid to dye his boots. The green of the leather was darkest, with the sturdy-looking trousers just a shade lighter, although the soft leather vest was once more so dark it looked almost black in the candlelight. The shirt was brightest, a hue that reminded him of leaves at the end of summer, just before they faded into the yellows and reds of autumn.

There was nothing travel-worn about his clothes, green though they were, and Arthur caught sight of a dull glint of metal at the man's hip as he stopped a few paces from the high table. A huge battle axe was clasped to his belt—for just a moment, Arthur tensed, reminding himself to give the guard a stern talking-to after the feast for not disarming the man, but then he looked closer. The axe was mottled with rust, moss growing on the blade and a tendril of ivy winding around the hilt.

Arthur stared, and the court stared, and the silence stretched for a few too-long seconds. At the back of the hall, the bard had given up on tuning his fiddle and was staring as well. Even the knights' raucous laughter had fallen silent; most of the servants had backed away to crowd around the pillars and whisper among themselves. The man smiled, very slightly, the expression little more than a brief twitch of his lips, and Arthur got the feeling that he was thoroughly enjoying the baffled attention that his appearance had drawn.

He bowed low then, strands of his shoulder-length black hair falling into his face to obscure his expression, and Arthur saw that he had ivy in his hair too, the thick, dark green leaves gleaming faintly in the light from the chandeliers. Behind him, Merlin sucked in a slow, apprehensive breath, but although Arthur would have been more than glad to glare him back into silence, he didn't speak.

"Your majesties," the man said as he straightened up, his voice low and a little raspy. Arthur frowned, but Uther didn't seem to mind that the honorific momentarily elevated his son to the status of a fellow king.

He paused after the greeting, his gaze resting on Arthur for a moment as though assessing and quietly cataloging his reaction, and Arthur saw that even his eyes were green. "Welcome to Camelot," Uther replied, not seeming to notice the wordless exchange. "What is your name, and what business do you have in Camelot?"

So his father's natural wariness of strangers was finally kicking in after all—his tone was casual enough, but Arthur could see the tightening around his eyes as he seemed to notice the man's odd appearance for the first time. His gaze lingered on the ivy in his hair and around the handle of his axe, but the hint of a polite smile remained fixed on his features.

Arthur exhaled slowly, feeling strangely reassured, now that he wasn't alone in his suspicion anymore. The man's gaze flitted back and forth between them for a second, as if he'd somehow heard that thought—then he smiled, though, and bowed his head again in acknowledgement.

"I am called the Green Knight," he said, and politely waited for Uther and Arthur to exchange a quick, confused glance. His gaze, when Arthur looked at him again, seemed almost apologetic, as if he knew very well that that wasn't really a name, although it was the only name he was able to give to them. "I am but a weary traveler who hoped to find a warm hearth to rest at, and I thank you for your hospitality."

Uther nodded, his gaze briefly skimming the hall behind the man; apparently he was still in more magnanimous a mood than Arthur had seen him in a long time, since he hadn't even commented on the strange name. All around them, the court was mostly silent, collectively awaiting the king's response, although Geoffrey of Monmouth had leaned closer to Gaius and was whispering something.

"You may sit with the knights," Uther said at last, waving a careless hand towards the table in question, already reaching for his goblet again. Arthur didn't take his eyes off of the man, but he saw Leon and Percival exchange a quick look in the background. "Eat and drink your fill, and then tell us whence you've come."

A smile curled the stranger's lips for the briefest second, but it didn't make Arthur's skin crawl with foreboding—it wasn't a malicious smile, it was almost _kind_ , and it made the man look oddly young. His beardless features were not yet lined, and Arthur would have thought that his face seemed ageless, if it hadn't been for the unsettling, fathomless depth in his eyes. They were green, not blue, but they still reminded Arthur of an endless well filled with water from centuries ago.

Arthur took a deep breath, shaking himself out of his thoughts as the stranger bowed again and swiftly retreated to the table Uther had shown him to. Around them, conversation tentatively started up again, and the fiddler, ever-determined to do his job well, resumed tuning his instrument—it was like an invisible veil had been lifted, now that the threat of the unknown had been defused by bows, smiles, and a strange name. He could hear Merlin shift behind him again, and Arthur suddenly realized that he must have stepped closer upon the man's arrival, ready to lash out or protect as needed if the situation escalated.

The thought should have been reassuring, or at least oddly endearing, given Merlin's general tendency to jump straight into peril without thinking, just on the off chance that he might be able to help. Arthur gripped the goblet tightly enough for his knuckles to go white, though, and took a generous mouthful of wine to distract himself, relishing in the tingle of alcohol and spices down his throat.

The bards launched into a new song, a playful tune led by the fiddler, and Geoffrey and Gaius finished their whispered conversation. Geoffrey made an effort to look suitably interested when Uther turned to him and started talking about the grain stores again, but Gaius still seemed troubled and paler than usual. He leaned back in his chair and glanced in Arthur's general direction, fixing his gaze on something above his head, and Arthur heard Merlin shuffle his feet a little in reaction. It seemed like a warning, like Gaius was sure that this strange interlude wasn't over yet, and was warning Merlin to be on his guard.

The Green Knight, on the other hand, seemed utterly unaffected by the curious glances that were sneaked at him from every direction. He'd sat down between Gwaine and Leon, and it occurred to Arthur that Leon must have hastily scooted over on the bench, strategically putting the stranger between himself and Gwaine, so that if he did reach for his rusty axe at any point, they'd be more than equipped to defuse the threat at little to no risk to themselves.

That finally reassured Arthur enough to lean back, and he took another casual sip of his wine as he continued to watch the knights. Gwaine was staring at the stranger as though he couldn't quite believe his eyes—he probably thought him to be an alcohol-induced, shockingly green hallucination. Arthur knew he hadn't had _that_ much to drink yet, though; and sure enough, Gwaine shook his head slightly after a moment as if trying to dislodge a particularly stubborn thought, and broke out into his customary, jovial grin.

Although he couldn't hear what Gwaine said to the stranger, Arthur saw him stick out his hand, and the Green Knight shook it after a moment, smiling back. Once more, the smile reached his eyes, chasing away a little of the somber timelessness that Arthur had found so unsettling before—whoever the man was, he didn't seem to be looking for a fight. Gwaine grabbed a fresh mug of cider from a passing servant and even managed to place it in front of the stranger with minimal spillage, where it was promptly taken up as the two men raised their mugs to each other. Both of them downed the cider in several large gulps, and the Green Knight leveled an appreciative look at his mug when he set it back down, nodding to himself as though that had been the best cider he'd had in an age.

Arthur turned his attention back to his own drink, barely noticing that his goblet was full once more—Merlin must have topped it off when he hadn't been looking. The unusually observant courtesy almost made him smile for just a second, until he remembered why it was there in the first place. He sighed, drained half of his wine with a single swallow, and dutifully turned to his father when Uther requested his opinion on the last year's harvest.

The bards played two more songs before they finally began to pack up their instruments; the feast had already been drawing to a close before the stranger's arrival, and they'd just continued to play for politeness' sake. The sky outside had long since grown dark, and as Arthur watched the knights' table from the corner of his eye, he saw Elyan and Percival stifle yawns. They were probably still exhausted from the hunt—they'd been gone a long time, and although the onset of spring had melted the snow a week ago, Arthur could only guess how far they'd had to ride to find a deer. Gaius and Geoffrey were talking again, voices so hushed that not even a word of what they said drifted over to him, but their expressions spoke for themselves. Geoffrey looked mildly concerned in reaction to whatever Gaius was telling him, and the physician seemed in deep thought, glancing down the hall on occasion, as though he was trying to retrieve a long-lost memory.

Behind him, Merlin kept shifting from foot to foot, if the shuffling sounds were anything to go by; even the impeccable, obliging servitude that he'd had displayed throughout the feast was obviously bound to run dry at some point. Arthur was starting to feel light-headed from the wine he'd drunk, and he struggled to remain focused—if he'd known that they would be housing an armed visitor, he'd have asked for his pitcher of wine to be watered down.

The knights seemed to have drunk their fill, too. Gwaine was leaning back in his chair, with a broad, slightly dazed grin that told Arthur that he wasn't yet thinking of the hangover he'd be nursing in the morning. Leon, who hadn't touched his goblet since the stranger had arrived, seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with Lancelot, but Arthur noticed that he never fully turned away from the man sitting at his other side. Gwen was talking to Elyan now, apparently dissuading him from having just another goblet of wine before bed; although the other servants had been milling about the entire hall, she had never strayed far from the knights.

A few of the courtiers had left already without Arthur noticing; none of them had dared to engage him or his father in conversation, probably for fear of upsetting the unusually light mood. The others seemed about ready to head to bed as well—the general chatter was dying down, no longer supported by jaunty tunes, now that the bards had left. Arthur glanced over at his father, wondering if this was the right moment to gently insinuate that they should be heading to bed soon as well. But before he could make up his mind, movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Arthur looked towards the knights' table just in time to see the Green Knight stand up.

It was just the simple movement of a tall man rising from his chair, but somehow, the gradually dimming candlelight made it look imposing. The flickering shadow on the pillar behind him looked bigger than the stranger himself, and Arthur found his hand straying towards his belt on instinct, a twinge of wariness cutting through the slight wine-induced haze in his mind. But a moment later, the foreign knight was stepping around the table towards the center of the hall, apparently intending to tell the court why he was here at last; simultaneously, Arthur realized that he wasn't wearing his dagger, let alone his sword. And the man still didn't seem to be looking for a fight—true, his stance was still graceful and sure, unaffected by the several mugs of cider Arthur had seen him drink, but his eyes, when he raised them to the high table, were as calm and unassuming as they had been when he'd first entered the hall.

"Your majesties, if I may," he began, not with a bow, this time, but with a respectful nod that once again encompassed both of them. Arthur couldn't tell if it was the late hour or the unbending straightness of the man's back, but something made alarm flicker through his father's eyes—apparently he'd noticed the inappropriate form of address this time.

But he didn't comment on it, inclining his head in assent instead, although Arthur noticed that he sat up a bit straighter. Gaius was leaning forward, intend on hearing whatever the Green Knight would have to say, and Geoffrey looked intrigued as well. That made four of them who were on their guard—well, five, if he counted Merlin, whom he'd heard shifting closer to the back of his chair again.

"I have traveled far and wide," the Green Knight began, passing a brief look around the hall as though to include everyone in this conversation, not just the king and prince, "and wherever I went I heard tales of Camelot, of the strength and prowess of your knights." He inclined his head at the high table once more, and Arthur shifted in his seat, feeling strangely unsettled by the gesture, although he could still see no deceit in the man's eyes, no tell-tale calculating shimmer that could have betrayed hidden intentions.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Leon's hand drift towards his belt on instinct, despite the fact that he wasn't wearing so much as a dagger either. A second later, he suspected that the stranger must have seen it too, or at least guessed at the wary look that Leon was directing at him, because he smiled and spread his hands in a placating gesture. "I seek no fight, but merely a game," he said, his tone light. "I have come from far away to see for myself whether the stories of this court's prowess are indeed true, or mere old wives' tales told at firesides to pass the time on long winter nights."

Leon exchanged a look with Lancelot, who in turn briefly glanced at Gwen, still hovering near the knights' table with a worried expression. Gwaine was leaning forward now, though, and Arthur could tell by his predatory grin that the stranger had piqued his interest—apparently, Gwaine didn't care that engaging in single combat while drunk was bound not to end well. Elyan had his chin propped up in his hand for support, and Percival kept blinking and shaking his head as though to rouse himself back to full awareness after the afternoon's long hunt and several cups of cider.

Even the courtiers had fallen silent by now, watching the candlelight chase flickering shadows across the stranger's features; the Green Knight waited a moment to let his words sink in, and then he reached for his belt and drew his axe with a rustle of leaves. The metal gleamed brightly when the handle thumped into the ground; keeping his fingers well clear of the blade, the man rested his hands on the wooden head, like he wanted the court to get a good look at his weapon of choice. Arthur stared at the blade, utterly dumbfounded for a moment—the rust was gone, it shone as though it had just been forged, but he was sure he hadn't imagined the moss that had clung to the metal before.

"If there is any nobleman both bold and strong in this court," the Green Knight said, his voice loud and confident in the silence, and just a little playful, "I invite him to deliver one stroke in exchange for another, with my own battle axe, if he so pleases. I shall receive the first blow as unarmed as I stand before you now, and I shall not flinch nor cower."

Merlin shifted uneasily behind him, but Arthur simply stared at the stranger, wondering for the first time if he was mad. Arthur was willing to bet that even one blow by a weapon as formidable as that axe would lead to certain death, if one aimed the blade at the man's neck or shoulder. To simply stand firm against a stroke like that without even the feeble protection of chainmail wasn't brave so much as it was foolish.

The Green Knight's eyes briefly flickered to Arthur, and he got the uneasy feeling that the man had somehow guessed at his thoughts, because he smiled again, a brief, playful twitch of his lips like he knew something Arthur didn't. "If I fall," he continued into the hush, still speaking loudly enough to be heard even by the servants at the very back of the hall, "I claim the right to strike out at my challenger in return, with no more than one blow in exchange for the first; and he who bested me shall meet me at my home, the Green Chapel, to receive this stroke when I claim it."

A ringing silence followed the words; nobody moved for a long moment, all eyes fixed on the man who was now slowly gazing around the room to gauge the effect his words had had. Almost on instinct, Arthur found himself eyeing the man's axe—it looked heavy and freshly polished, the blade sharp and keen even in the dim hall. It could just be a trick of the light, but Arthur thought he could see ornaments engraved on the metal, silver leaves twining across the blade. Its weight was not to be underestimated, but wielded with both hands, Arthur was sure that it could all but cleave a man in two.

He didn't harbor any ill will towards the stranger, and he felt a little sorry for him—he was obviously mentally unhinged, if he truly believed he could survive a blow of that axe, let alone lift it again and strike someone down in return. On the other hand, Arthur himself was slightly inebriated by the wine, so the odds probably evened out—and the man did look quite sturdy, thriving with strength and health despite his ludicrous challenge. And after all, an open challenge such as this, in full view of the entire court, could not go unanswered, and he put his goblet down with a clang.

Merlin gasped behind him, clearly catching on to what Arthur was about to do. Arthur spared just a brief moment to hoping that Merlin wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of his father, although counting on discretion from _Merlin_ was a hopeless cause even on an ordinary day. He took a deep breath and shifted forward in his seat, ready to rise and accept the stranger's challenge, but suddenly a gloved hand caught his arm and pushed him back down.

He stared at his father in utter surprise, along with mostly everyone else—but Uther wasn't even looking his way, his gaze still fixed on the Green Knight. He must have felt more than heard Arthur move, and his grip was surprisingly strong, considering how much wine he'd had; but the protesting whisper of _'Father!'_ that had already been poised on his tongue died in Arthur's throat when he caught sight of the king's expression.

His first thought was that Uther looked like he'd seen a ghost, because his father had looked so pale once before, when they'd carried him back into his chambers from the courtyard months and months ago. Arthur looked around, a sickening surge of dread rising like bile in his throat, but of course he didn't see whatever it was that had tipped the fragile balance in his father's mind. He only saw the Green Knight, whose gaze was shifting back and forth between them in polite confusion.

"Father," Arthur said, quietly enough not to be heard by anyone but the king. He hated the tremor in his voice, although he knew the single word would have come out sounding steady and assured if he'd only seen this _coming_. But this time there had been nothing—no brooding silence, no dark bags under the king's eyes, no signs at all that pointed to nightmares, nothing that could have warned Arthur of this relapse.

Gently, Arthur tried to dislodge his father's grip, but the gloved fingers wouldn't budge, although by now it seemed like Uther was holding on to him, rather than holding him back. His eyes looked huge and foreign in his white face, and Arthur could see sweat beading on his forehead, his shallow breathing coming faster like he was searching desperately for words that would dispel whatever memory or vision was clouding his mind. "Father," Arthur repeated, a little more loudly this time, and his heart sank when Uther didn't even blink.

"Leave," his father whispered through trembling lips, his voice so hushed that the single word was almost drowned out by the outrush of breath, as though it had been voiced only with great effort. As it was, it seemed all the louder in the utter silence that still hung about the room. Arthur blinked, confused for a moment until his father raised a trembling hand to point at the Green Knight.

"I order you to leave _now_ ," Uther said, more loudly now, like the sound of his own voice had reassured him, "and if you dare to _ever_ come here again, I will hunt you down like a dog. The army will scour the lands for you until you are found and brought to justice, and I will not rest until the day I watch you burn."

Arthur frowned in worried confusion at the harsh words—the man had just challenged the court, rather boldly, to be sure, but at least he hadn't taken out a staff and started shouting spells. His father only ever reacted this violently in the face of sorcery, and even then, Arthur had never seen him quite like this. When faced with magic, Arthur had seen his father suspicious, enraged, hateful and wary by turns, but he didn't think he'd ever seen him truly _frightened_.

There was a long, tense pause, but at last the Green Knight nodded, obviously accepting Uther's decision. "Very well," he said, with another bow; he didn't even look particularly surprised, but there was a strange tightness in his voice, almost as though the rejection pained him. "Then I will have to look elsewhere for a contestant."

He bowed once more, to Arthur this time, and held his eyes for a long moment. There was no resentment in his face, no disappointment, and Arthur inclined his head to him before he could think better of it, a mark of respect from one knight to another, rather than a sovereign lord's magnanimous gesture. The Green Knight smiled at him for the briefest second before sliding his axe back into his belt. Then he turned on his heel and walked down the length of the hall, once more unconcerned with the many pairs of eyes that followed his exit, until he'd stepped out of sight into the corridor.

Arthur listened to the sound of his footsteps until they'd faded into the distance, barely noticing that his father had let go of his arm. He automatically flexed his fingers when they started tingling, a tell-tale sign of just how tightly Uther had been holding on to him, and passed a careful look around the room. Gwen was whispering with Lancelot, although Arthur had the strange feeling that she'd been looking at him until just a second ago; Leon, Percival and Elyan were all frowning at each other wordlessly, clearly trying to make sense of what had just happened. Gwaine looked torn between confusion and annoyance, like he'd been looking forward to a good battle and was now rather disappointed at his source of entertainment being taken away.

Uther was breathing heavily now, as if the episode had exhausted him. Arthur saw him make a brief, aborted motion like he'd wanted to reach for his goblet, but realized that his hands were trembling so badly that he'd end up spilling the wine all over himself if he so much as touched it. Arthur leaned over, carefully jostling his father's arm under the pretense of reaching for his own cup, and fought to keep his face blank when Uther didn't even look at him.

The glances were back, too, quickly hidden looks sneaked at the king from every corner of the hall, like everyone was trying to gauge if he was going to fly into one of those thoughtless rages that often followed breakdowns like this. His father hadn't been himself ever since they had defeated Cenred's army, not until tonight, at least—he alternated between bouts of listlessness and a kind of aggressive wariness that made him lash out at everyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way. Arthur had been surprised when the king had announced the feast, but he hadn't allowed himself to hope until he'd heard his father talk to Geoffrey about the weather.

He couldn't help a small sigh of relief when half of the court rose as one and declared that it had gotten quite late—maybe he could accompany his father to his chambers when he retired later, and try to find out what had gone wrong. And maybe Uther would let himself be coaxed into having just a few more sips of wine before bed—wine into which Arthur would pour one of Gaius' sleeping potions, to spare his father the nightmares he'd surely have otherwise, after an evening like this. He never took them voluntarily, but Arthur and Gaius had their ways of sneaking them into his drinks anyway—something Arthur hated whenever he let himself think about it for too long, although secrecy seemed like a small price to pay for his father's dreamless sleep.

The spiced wine tasted stale to him when Arthur drained the last of it in one gulp—he knew he'd have a hangover the next morning, but he figured that _he_ needed all the sleep he could get, too. Behind him, Merlin sighed quietly as though catching on to his thoughts, but he still darted forward when Arthur started to rise. Arthur felt him bump into his chair in his haste to be of assistance, and Merlin's fingers brushed his shoulder when he clasped them around the wood to draw the chair back for him.

Arthur stood up without comment, though, and looked down at his father's bowed head for a moment, at the slump of his shoulders and the way his right hand was clenching and unclenching at his side, as though he wished he still had Arthur's arm to hold on to. It was so _unfair_ somehow, that the feast had played out like this, with Uther white-faced and silent once more after he'd been in such a good mood, all the progress he'd made this evening undone by a strange visitor.

It made him restless and angry on his father's behalf most of the time, that the entire court knew of the scars that Morgana's betrayal had left in their king's mind. But sometimes, so rarely that he never admitted it to himself if he could help it, he got angry at his father, too. Uther wasn't the only one affected by what Morgana had done, after all. Gwen had been listless and forgetful for weeks, although she'd done her best to help as they repaired the castle and burned any and all banners of a red tree on a black background they could find. She'd only recently started to recover some of her usual cheerful calmness, something Arthur suspected Lancelot to have had a hand in, since he talked to Gwen rather often these days.

Sometimes Arthur just wanted to grab his father and shake him, startle him out of the stupor he'd fallen into, and shout some sense back into him until he once more became the fierce, dedicated man Arthur knew and still admired. He wanted to tell him that Morgana hadn't been his only child, he wanted to say, _I'm still here, I'm loyal to you, I haven't betrayed you_.

But then he inevitably recalled the hopeful, terrified look in Merlin's eyes, the paleness of his face when he'd said, "Arthur, I'm a sorcerer", and remembered that it would be a lie.

 

  


 

All in all, Merlin probably should have been expecting it, but the slam of Arthur's door in his face still hurt just a little.

"I'll just... go, then," he muttered, although he doubted Arthur could (or wanted to) hear him through the wood. The evening had gone better than he'd thought it would—he was fairly sure he hadn't stepped out of line even once, he'd been the perfect servant, he'd even refilled his goblet before Arthur had ordered him to. Okay, he'd spilled a few drops on Arthur's sleeve that one time, but Arthur hadn't even commented on it, although Merlin now almost wished he had.

He'd have gotten snapped at, sure; Merlin could almost hear it, could just imagine the impatient frown on Arthur's face and the impatience in his voice— _'Surely pouring wine is too simple a task even for_ you _to get wrong, is it, Merlin?'_ The words would have been harsh, devoid of the usual hint of fond exasperation, but at least it would have been _something_. Not an order, but an acknowledgement of sorts, and Merlin would have cherished it like a gift.

He waited for another moment, but there was no sound from inside Arthur's chambers, and so he finally turned away with a sigh, directing his steps towards Gaius' study. He was tired—the day had been long and filled with preparations for the feast, although Merlin had felt a surge of pride when he'd entered the hall just a step behind Arthur in the evening. The large rectangular room looked almost like it used to, the cracks in the walls mostly hidden behind tapestries, and over the past few months, the masons had done an amazing job at rebuilding the ceiling where it had cracked as well under the onslaught of Morgana's magic. During the evening, Merlin had thought that if one didn't look up and ignored the general air of slightly forced cheerfulness, it could have been just any other celebration, one of the numerous feasts Camelot had been so famous for before the war against Cenred.

Until the weird stranger had arrived, of course. Merlin shook his head slightly, slowly picking his way down a poorly-lit stairwell—he still didn't know what to make of the man. He hadn't expected him to just leave without even arguing his case, and he certainly hadn't expected Uther's reaction. It made him wonder if the king knew the Green Knight from somewhere, or if he'd simply balked at the prospect of his son having to take a blow from that axe.

And well, Merlin was still glad that Arthur hadn't gotten to take up the proverbial gauntlet, because the man—a knight though he had seemed to be—had been practically _glowing_ with magic. Merlin doubted that anyone else had noticed, maybe aside from Gaius, who had caught his eye with a warning look that had been essentially unnecessary; Merlin couldn't have missed it if he'd tried. An unearthly shimmer seemed to hover around the stranger, billowing out into the hall until the very air had been singing with it, a low, insistent hum that itched at Merlin's skin and wormed its way into his bones.

A part of it had felt oddly familiar, but mostly it had just been foreign and alien in its sheer _strength_ —Merlin's thoughts briefly flitted back to all the magical creatures he had encountered in his life, but none seemed fit for a comparison. The only time he'd felt that overwhelmed had been on the Isle of the Blessed, because the whole place was _steeped_ in magic, but the Green Knight hadn't seemed like a sorcerer in disguise.

Merlin hadn't known what to do with the warning glance Gaius had sent him, though. He'd shifted closer to Arthur just in case, although he saw no malicious intent in the Green Knight's eyes, no shrewd gleam of vengeful fury. No one else had noticed anything, and little by little, Merlin had relaxed the tight grip on his own magic, although he stayed on his guard.

Arthur had asked Merlin to attend him at the feast, in a carefully blank tone and with just as blank a look, but Merlin had had to fight hard to keep his features from splitting into a stupidly relieved grin. It hadn't been much, since Arthur hadn't so much as acknowledged him even once in the hall, but it was _something_. It was better than the short, snapped orders Arthur hurled at him during an average day, better than the first two weeks of silence. All in all, Merlin thought as he crossed the courtyard with quick steps, hunching his shoulders against the cold, it was just as good as the day Arthur had finally talked to him again, if only to tell him that the stables needed a thorough mucking-out.

He didn't even know what had possessed him to accompany Arthur to his chambers after the feast—Arthur certainly hadn't asked, and rationally, Merlin had known that he wouldn't be allowed in. Arthur rarely let him into his chambers anymore these days, except to clean them, and he usually had Merlin do that when he was well away at the training grounds. Tonight was the first time in the past month that Arthur had broken his self-imposed rule of avoiding Merlin at all costs, and although it was probably stupid to hope, Merlin couldn't have chased the bounce from his step even if he'd tried.

But then again, he also hadn't known what possessed him when he'd told Arthur about his magic.

It certainly hadn't been a carefully planned-out announcement. Truth to be told, there had been so many missed opportunities during the past few years that before Morgana's usurpation of Camelot's throne, Merlin had almost accepted the fact that he'd need to wait until Arthur was king to tell him. But then they had spent that dreadful week hiding in the woods, and Merlin still remembered the castle they'd found shelter in.

And most of all, he remembered the table. It hadn't felt like a coincidence when he'd sat down at Arthur's right, and his breath caught in his throat when he looked down at the single word carved into the tabletop. He hadn't been afraid, knowing that only Gaius might be familiar enough with the language of spells to know its meaning, but the sight had still gone through him like a bolt of lightning.

 _Drylic_ , the carving had read. Magic. It was _his_ seat, it was where he belonged, although the others seemed to have chosen their seats at random and Merlin had been the last to claim his. Magic, at Arthur's right hand, offering advice and providing help and stability that no other power could give. Even then, he'd known that if they did succeed in winning Camelot back, they'd need stability more than anything to rebuild what Morgana had destroyed.

The realization had seemed to grow and stretch at the back of his mind, like an animal rousing itself from a long period of hibernation. Arthur had been the only thing standing between Camelot and chaos during those first weeks when the knights had helped to rebuild the damages in the lower town. Uther had wandered through the citadel like a ghost, mostly unaware of what was going on around him until Gaius and Arthur had started to sneak sleeping potions into his wine. Sometimes the king had flinched when somebody approached him, before looking up with a hopeful half-smile, as if he hoped that Morgana's betrayal had just been a dreadful nightmare that he was finally waking up from. Merlin had watched Arthur sit at his father's bedside whenever he could spare a moment, the bags under his eyes growing darker even as Camelot recovered from the crippling blow it had been dealt.

 _No more secrets_ , Merlin had decided, with a calm, fierce kind of determination that he'd hardly ever felt before. If he was to stand tall and strong at Arthur's side one day like Kilgharrah said he would, if he wanted to feel like he'd truly _earned_ the seat he had taken at the table, there was to be nothing but honesty between them. Of course he'd been afraid, countless sleepless nights spent with his heart thumping dreadfully at the thought of what Arthur might do, but the memory of that odd sense of belonging he'd felt in his seat to Arthur's right had spurred him on. His decision hardened with time, although his apprehension grew as well, like a pendulum in his head gaining momentum with each inevitable swing.

But he hadn't wanted to get caught, to be found out like he had been by Gaius and Lancelot. He wanted it to happen on his own terms. He wanted it to be a gift, a sign of trust, although he had known even then that Arthur would need time to see it as anything else than a betrayal, and that weeks, maybe months would pass until he'd even want to.

Before, he'd expected things to go jagged and breakable between them with the unveiling of his secret. He had braced himself for it, for the threat of injury lurking behind every glance, for thoughts sharpened to careful weapons, seen only in flashes until the moment of attack. But now, it was more like they were wrapped in cotton wool, suspended in an undefined, weightless place like air growing stale in a locked room. Arthur wasn't talking to him, and after those agonizing two weeks, Merlin stopped trying to get him to speak. Ironically, that had been when Arthur had broken his silence, but they still weren't really _talking_ —Arthur spoke to him to issue orders, never reprimanding or encouraging, and Merlin replied with automatic _yes, sire_ s that for once lacked the customary edge.

The most painful thing, Merlin had found out, was the memory of how close they had been before. Against all odds, they had become _friends_ , and somehow, Merlin only realized that now, since Arthur was at last treating him like a proper master should treat his servant. During the day it wasn't as hard to ignore, because Arthur was shut up in the council chambers most of the time anyway, if he wasn't down in the training grounds with the knights. Merlin worked without complaint, carrying out whatever orders Arthur gave him, determined not to cave under the weight of the silence between them. Those first two weeks had made it more than clear that Arthur wouldn't—or couldn't—let Merlin explain, that he wasn't ready to hear what Merlin had to say, and so Merlin resigned himself to convincing Arthur of his loyalty with actions rather than words.

Oddly enough, the mornings were the worst, rather than the nights. He had feared sleep before—he'd thought he would dream of fire, of flames greedily peeling off his skin to get at the flesh beneath, Arthur watching from the balustrade with a face like stone. Merlin hardly ever dreamed, though, and if he did, it was mostly meaningless rehashes of his day, with the worst image being that of a red tree on black.

But when Gaius woke him in the morning, he spent a few blissful minutes dozing somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, cocooned in warmth under his blankets. And sometimes he forgot what had happened, and wondered sleepily if Arthur would come break down his door later if he went back to sleep for just a few more minutes. He could almost see it, just before awareness and memory slammed back in—Arthur leaning against the doorway and regarding him with a frown, his haughty tone belied by the minute twitching of his mouth as he wondered aloud if Merlin did indeed think that his beauty sleep was more important than the crown prince's breakfast.

The mornings reminded him of working a sprained muscle; the occasional pull of hurt was never unexpected, but that didn't mean it got any less painful over time. Still, the hope was there, that if he just gritted his teeth through it and kept on, stubbornly sticking to Arthur's side like one of those tiny but annoying burrs that often caught in his hair when he went hunting—that maybe, over time, things would get better, and Arthur would understand. And if Merlin sometimes found himself second-guessing his decision, thinking that maybe it had been too soon, too poorly planned, he was always quick to stop that train of thought before it could go any further.

Gaius was still up when Merlin shut the door behind him, and judging from the troubled frown on his face as he bent over a book, he wouldn't find sleep for another few hours. Merlin drew close to the hearth as he watched his mentor turn a page in the book, grateful for the warmth—winter was over, but the nights were still cold.

"Do you think Uther's going to... um...," Merlin started, and then trailed off, not really knowing how to put _'go mad for a while again'_ into polite words. Gaius flinched a little at the sound of his voice, staring at him in incomprehension for a moment as he was jolted out of his thoughts.

"I don't know, Merlin," he replied. He had propped up several candles in front of him, and the flickering light made him look even older than he was. "I've sent a servant with a sleeping potion for the king, and one for Arthur as well. God knows they'll need them."

Maybe Merlin kept his face a little too expressionless, because Gaius gave him a comforting—if troubled—smile. Even if Merlin had tried, he wouldn't have found a way to keep his and Arthur's fallout from him, and Gaius had been a source of steady support and unending reassurances during the past few weeks. He didn't wholly approve of what Merlin had done, though he never said as much; he just told Merlin to let Arthur come to terms with his secret on his own, to let his temper wear itself out and just keep an eye open for the moment he would finally be ready to talk.

Merlin smiled back, and crossed the room to his own door, shivering a little at the blast of cool air that hit him from within he opened it. He took off his jacket and hung it up on one of the hooks next to the door, muttering a heating spell to chase the nightly chill from the room. The temperature rose and Merlin stretched slowly, arching the tension out of his back after an evening spent standing up.

He poked his head out of the door once more to say goodnight to Gaius, and saw that he was still immersed in whatever he was reading. One of the candles had gone out, a pool of melted wax cooling dangerously close to the book, but Gaius didn't seem to notice

"I've heard of him before," he murmured, mostly to himself, turning another page in his book; Merlin could see now that it was a book on folklore, a collection of fairytales and songs. "It was almost the same as..."

"Gaius?" Merlin asked softly, and Gaius flinched again, turning around. He looked puzzled for a moment, as though he'd been so focused on sifting through his memories and the tales in the book that it was hard to refocus on the present.

"Good night, Merlin," he said after a short pause, his hand resting on the open page to mark the place where he'd left off. But his smile was genuine, bearing no trace of the worry that Merlin had come to associate with anything potentially dangerous. He had a good idea who Gaius was trying to gain information about, too, and _he_ hadn't felt particularly scared of the Green Knight either. He'd been strange, yes, and saturated with magic for some reason, but not evil or dangerous.

There was a picture on the other page, an ink-colored drawing of a tree with three black birds sitting on a leafless branch—Gaius' elbow was obscuring the rest of the image, but Merlin thought he saw the head of a dog, and a knight's fallen shield, abandoned in a green glade. It looked like an illustration of a fairytale, reminding him of the book that his mother had used to teach him to read.

It was tempting to join him at the table and ask what—or rather, who—Gaius was looking for, and what he hoped to find in a book of folk tales. But Merlin knew that if Gaius found anything, or if there was anything about the evening's occurrences that he felt Merlin should know, he'd tell him the next morning.

"Good night," Merlin replied, grinning to cover up the slight pause, and Gaius gave him a crooked smile that looked like he'd read Merlin's thoughts before turning back to the book once more. Merlin stepped back into his room, relishing for a moment in the now considerably warmer air, and quietly shut the door on the candlelight.


	2. The Journey

On the morning they set out to ride north, Gwaine had a headache.

It was probably because of those seventh and eighth casks of ale he'd drunk last night; but it wasn't _his_ fault the Rising Sun purchased their drinks from the best brewers in the land. And given the fact that he still didn't know exactly where they were headed and why, it might be a long time until they came across the next half-decent tavern, and so he had figured that it'd be best to get drunk while he still had the chance.

The morning sunlight hurt his eyes when he walked out into the courtyard, but he still tilted back his head to look up at the clear blue sky—they'd had more and more sunny days during the past month, and the sunlight got progressively warmer as spring spread all over the land. A good day for hunting, and an even better day for traveling—ideal conditions, since they were setting out to do both.

All around him, the courtyard was bustling with activity. Horses were led to the far wall, some of them already saddled, and Gwaine spotted Llamrei, Arthur's favorite chestnut mare. She kept tossing her head in excitement, obviously thrilled at being away from the stables, and a harried-looking servant was doing his best to steady her while another boy hefted saddle bags onto her back.

Arthur himself wasn't there yet, but Leon caught his eye from the other side of the courtyard and gave him a nod. Gwaine waved back in greeting, noticing that Leon was talking to Merlin, next to what was most likely one of the two packhorses they were going to take with them. It seemed like they were debating the ideal position of a lumpy bag on the horse's back. He also recognized some of the other knights' horses, with saddlebags and bedrolls already on their backs—Gwaine had woken up to find many of his clothes mysteriously gone from the small cupboard he kept them in, and belatedly realized that a servant had probably done the packing for him. That thought felt wrong somehow, because he'd never had anyone doing things like that for him since he'd been a child, but he figured that it was just one of the numerous things that a knight of Camelot had to get used to.

And apparently, going on strange quests was another of those things. When the first rumors had begun to trickle in a month ago, shortly after that disastrous feast which that odd visitor had barged into, Gwaine hadn't thought much of them. Merchants from the north had been the first to talk of strange occurrences that were taking place in the area near the coast, but although the king had developed the habit of summoning the army to the citadel even at the most insubstantial rumors about magic, he had done nothing this time.

But two weeks ago, messengers from the Northern Plains had arrived, asking for an audience. Leon had overseen their daily training that day because Arthur was shut up in the dusty council chamber discussing whatever news they had brought. Puzzled, Gwaine and Percival had gone to the tavern that night with the intention of plying the messengers with enough wine to get them to rely their news to them, but it had taken barely a bit of poking and prodding to get them to talk. Camelot had few vassals and potential allies in the Northern Plains, which made them all the more valuable, and apparently, some of them had ended up mysteriously dead.

There was something more to it, Gwaine was sure—the look of ingrained, exhausted fear in the messengers' eyes had told him as much. He'd exchanged a meaningful look with Percival, who had been busy fending off the advances of two busty barmaids who seemed very impressed with his muscly bulk and bright blue eyes, if their tittering and the smoldering, seductive gazes were anything to go by. But Gwaine just bought the messengers another round of drinks in the hopes of making them forget whatever was troubling them, and left Percival to ward off the two women, studiously ignoring the wordless plea for help in his eyes. They had been staying at Camelot for the better part of four months, and in Gwaine's opinion it had been high time that Percival gave in to the numerous advances that the female population had made towards him since he'd arrived.

And now they were setting out into the Northern Plains, on the king's orders, although Arthur had argued long and hard that he, at least, should be staying at Camelot and leave the knights to investigate the noblemen's deaths on their own. The prince had gotten quite good at persuasion since Cenred's attack on Camelot, and Gwaine knew that he had often dissuaded his father from rash actions, such as sending his army barging into Mercia because King Bayard's latest letter seemed to contain veiled designs on his kingdom. But as surprisingly willing as Uther had been to listen to his son in the past few months, he had been stubborn in this, and so Arthur was coming along with them despite his protests.

"Sir Gwaine?" somebody suddenly said from behind him, startling him out of his thoughts, and Gwaine turned around with an amicable grin—hearing that 'sir' attached to his name never got old.

A stablehand was walking towards him, leading a blindingly white stallion that violently objected to being led at all—it kept prancing to the side and tossing its head, and the boy was hanging on to the bridle with both hands, trying to direct its meandering steps in Gwaine's general direction. It was already saddled and bridled, and sure enough, Gwaine recognized folds of his missing clothes peeking out between the neat folds of a bedroll.

He stared at the horse. The horse stared back. He recognized it well enough now—it had been a gift from a visiting lord who had come to stick his nose into Camelot's business while they'd still been busy repairing the most superficial of the damage that Lady Morgana's reign had done. Gwaine had never seen it ridden so far, mostly because whoever dared to mount the white stallion found themselves lying in the dirt a few seconds later, with a bruised ego and an even more bruised backside.

"This is Gryngolet, sir," the boy said, stroking a hand over the horse's nose. Gryngolet promptly bumped his head into the stablehand's chest, nearly toppling him backwards. "The prince says you're to ride him."

"Great, thanks," Gwaine replied, although he felt the grin slip from his features. It was anything _but_ great, but it wasn't the stablehand's fault that Arthur had chosen to finally take his revenge on Gwaine for nearly besting him in the training grounds a week ago. He knew that many noblemen would simply order the boy to fetch him another horse, probably not without mocking the way he was now clinging to Gryngolet's reins in an attempt to keep him still. But Gwaine hadn't really been too keen on being a nobleman since his father's death, and so he just took a deep breath and gave the boy a nod, intent on facing this challenge that Arthur had provided him with.

Across the courtyard, Merlin was securing the straps that kept their baggage on the packhorse's back. Sure enough, _that_ horse never batted an eye, snuffling along the hem of Merlin's shirt in search of treats and standing as still as stone. It wasn't all that weighed down anyway, since none of the knights were going to take along their armor—they wore the sturdy clothes that they usually put on for hunting. Rumor had it that the prince and the king had had a lengthy argument about that, one of the first since the battle against Cenred, and it seemed to Gwaine that Arthur had argued his point more vigorously than normal, although he was probably just glad that his father even focused his attention for long enough to quarrel with him. The king had relented at last, and agreed to let them ride with only the protection of the vambraces they normally wore for hunting. Arthur wanted to keep a low profile, in case spies from Mercia were just as curious about the sudden, seemingly systematic deaths of Camelot's potential northern vassals.

He passed a swift look around the busy courtyard, but Arthur wasn't there yet, and it seemed that his headache was receding a little, alleviated by what little food he'd hastily choked down this morning. Perfect. "Hold him steady for a moment," he told the stablehand, stepping forward to take a hold of Gryngolet's saddle. The stallion took a step to the side, snorting dangerously, but Gwaine just moved with him, and, deciding to take his steed by surprise, swung himself up into the saddle with a fluid movement.

Gryngolet snorted again, but this time it sounded disdainful. He was larger than he'd looked from the ground, and Gwaine had just enough time to think that he'd make a fine warhorse if someone trained him properly. Then Gryngolet reared up, pulling out of the stablehand's precarious hold on his bridle, and before Gwaine could so much as make a grab for the reins, he found himself toppling off the stallion's back, his backside colliding with the cobblestone with a dull thump.

He remained sitting on the ground for a moment, staring up at the horse and the boy in slightly stunned silence; the stablehand wisely said nothing, but turned away to readjust the saddlebags. Getting up with a pained groan, Gwaine patted the dust off of his trousers, ignoring the painful throb in his hip—he'd be damned if he didn't manage to get on that horse before Arthur arrived.

"If that's how you want it, the game is on," he told the stallion, who stood demurely still as the stablehand once more grabbed hold of the reins, but Gwaine could see the devious glint in the one eye that was turned towards him. He found himself beginning to grin, despite the ache in his butt—Gryngolet would make a fine warhorse indeed. He wasn't skittish, he wouldn't shy from a band of brigands coming at his rider and roaring for blood. Gwaine just had to convince him to actually follow his lead.

The stablehand gave him a doubtful look when Gwaine gripped the saddle once more, briefly brushing his other hand along the horse's flank. He hadn't been mistaken—Gryngolet's head might be bowed low, but Gwaine could feel the tension thrumming through his muscles, waiting to explode once more. His first fall had drawn the attention of various onlookers, and he could see Elyan watching him warily from where he was securing his bedroll to his own horse's back.

With a grin towards his fellow knight, Gwaine mounted the horse again, shoving his foot into the other stirrup even as he took up the reins and nodded at the stablehand. The boy stepped back, looking torn between relief and concern—it couldn't have been easy to care for such a temperamental horse, especially when no one actually took it out for a good run once in a while to let it blow off some steam. Just settling down in the saddle felt like perching precariously on a volcano; Gryngolet was trembling beneath Gwaine's weight, as though he was thoroughly enraged at the audacity of his rider having mounted him a second time.

This time, though, Gwaine was ready, and closed his legs tightly around the stallion's bulk when Gryngolet started to buck. He grabbed fistfuls of the flying white mane in front of him, well aware how painful the bit of the bridle would pull at the horse's mouth if he tried to rein him in now, and just held on for dear life. Gryngolet pranced a few steps to the side, his loud, indignant whinny bouncing off the walls of the courtyard when he reared up onto his hind legs. Gwaine gritted his teeth, squeezing his knees around the horse's shoulders when his hooves came back down on the cobblestone with a clatter.

But the stallion hadn't reared up very high, as though the solid bulk of Gwaine's weight already told him that this was a rider he couldn't dislodge that easily. He snorted and tossed his large head, effectively yanking his mane out of Gwaine's grasp, but Gwaine tugged on the reins—not hard, merely in warning—and the horse jumped beneath him as if startled. Gwaine thought briefly that nobody had stayed in Gryngolet's saddle for long enough to admonish him, and he leaned forward to pat the white neck in reassurance. That startled the stallion even more, and he came to a complete stand-still, his ears moving nervously as though trying to assess what his new rider would do next.

Gwaine grinned appreciatively—it was only a small victory, and he was sure he'd fight many more battles with the horse until he eventually managed to gain its trust. But it was a start, and when Arthur chose that exact moment to emerge from the castle, he mentally patted himself on the back for having dealt with his supposed revenge.

The prince strode down the stairs, his assessing gaze traveling across the courtyard. He didn't _quite_ pause when he saw Gwaine mounted safely on his still perplexed steed, but Gwaine could see the surprise in his eyes even from this far away, and it widened his grin. Leon approached him, probably to tell him that the packhorses were ready and they were all set to ride out; Gwaine's eyes briefly sought and found Merlin, who was slipping what looked like a lump of sugar between one of the packhorse's soft lips.

Elyan had already mounted his horse, as well as the two squires they'd be taking with them. Arthur had explained their route to them a week ago, but the details were a bit fuzzy in Gwaine's memory—he'd been nursing a hangover at the time. All he remembered was that they were going to split up when they reached the Northern Plains; Elyan, Percival and the squires were to ride east to check on the nobles there, while Arthur and the rest of them would head further north. After a long trek through hilly marshland, the two groups were set to meet up again near the Mercian border.

Arthur walked over to Llamrei, briefly touching her nose in greeting before he bent to check the fit of the saddlebags. There was a clatter of noise to Gwaine's right, and he turned just in time to see Percival hurry into the courtyard, looking annoyed and decidedly flustered, like he'd overslept. Gwaine recalled the smoldering gaze that the barmaid had fixed on his fellow knight last night at the tavern, and got the feeling that he knew why. Percival wasted no time in climbing on his horse, though, a black steed that was even larger than Gryngolet, but rather docile in nature.

Gwaine risked a quick glance up at the windows, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sunlight—the glass was reflecting the light, and he couldn't tell if he'd caught sight of movement in the king's chambers or if he'd just imagined it. At any rate, Uther wasn't coming down into the courtyard to wish his son a safe journey. Gwaine hadn't expected him to, but he could tell that Arthur had, if the way his eyes kept straying towards his father's window were any indication.

He looked over to the wooden door at the top of the stairs on the far side of the courtyard, just in time to see Lancelot step out of the corridor, blinking against the sunlight. He held the door open and Gwen emerged as well, wearing a troubled expression—she put her hand on Lancelot's arm to hold him back, and he turned to her again. Gwaine couldn't hear their conversation over the general din of clattering hooves and the chatter of servants' voices in the courtyard, but Gwen looked worried and entreating at once; her hand was still on Lancelot's arm, and Gwaine guessed that she was telling him to return safely.

Their heads bent close to one another for a moment, and Gwaine saw Lancelot's hand come up to cover Gwen's fingers in reassurance. Then he bowed to her, and even from this distance, Gwaine could see the faint flush staining Gwen's cheeks even as her features broke out into a reluctant smile—trust Lancelot's courtly manners to fluster her enough to dispel her anxiety for the moment.

Lancelot walked down the steps, looking like he was doing his best to refocus his thoughts, and Gwen's eyes remained on him for a moment longer before she turned her searching gaze to the courtyard. She stepped forward as though to move down the steps as well, her expression going tight and slightly guilty, and Gwaine wasn't surprised when his eyes landed on Arthur's strategically turned back when he followed her gaze.

It seemed like Arthur was just checking the fit of Llamrei's saddle, one hand braced on her neck, but his shoulders seemed a little too tense, his stance a bit too stiff to be genuine. Gwaine sighed, and gently urged Gryngolet forward when Arthur abruptly swung himself up onto his mare's back. The stallion obeyed without much fussing, although he did toss his head imperiously, as though to say that even if he was behaving right now, more insubordination was in store for Gwaine soon.

Merlin was hurriedly climbing atop his horse as well, grunting with the effort of lifting himself up into the saddle unaided—he usually perched on a random footstool, and the display of utterly graceless horsemanship made Gwaine smile again.

"All set?" he asked as Merlin tied the packhorse's reins to his saddle—as the only servant on their quest, it would be his duty to look after their share of the supplies. One of the squires was already leading the other packhorse to the drawbridge. The servants hadn't packed much, just a bag with emergency field rations and another with salves and remedies for sprained muscles by the court physician. They were held in place by bundles of sturdy cloth that they would put up between tree branches to ward off eventual rain at night—a tent would have been too heavy, and they wanted to keep a low profile anyway. And as far as Gwaine recalled the map Arthur had shown them, they'd pass through a couple of villages on their way—as long as they didn't dally, they weren't going to run out of taverns to sleep in.

"Sure," Merlin replied, although his gaze returned to the packhorse and stayed there, like he was mentally reviewing everything he'd bound to its back to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. At the same time, Arthur rode past them on Gwaine's other side, the clatter of Llamrei's hooves echoing off the walls enclosing the courtyard. Merlin took a deep breath when Arthur had passed them, urging his horse to follow, although just a second ago he'd studiously avoided meeting the prince's eyes at all.

Gwaine sighed again. He might be relatively new to Camelot, but the increase in avoided eye contact and quickly-hidden glances among his friends and fellow knights hadn't passed him by. Gwen was alternating between avoiding Arthur and trying to seek him out, causing Lancelot to speak to his prince with even more careful deference than usual. Merlin seemed to stubbornly stick to Arthur's side like a burr most of the time although the prince lately didn't seem to appreciate his presence all that much. And Arthur was doing his best to avoid all three of them. At this rate, the journey would provide some welcome relief from being shut up inside the castle walls with a bunch of people who had spent the past month tiptoeing around each other.

As if he'd heard Gwaine's thoughts, Arthur called for them to ride out, and Gwaine urged Gryngolet into motion, barely managing to keep his seat when the stallion jumped forward. He seemed just as glad that they were finally starting their journey, and so Gwaine didn't try to slow his quick trot when his hooves thundered across the wooden drawbridge.

Percival rode up to his side as they quickly made their way through the lower town, shooting him a morose glare of betrayed trust. Gwaine just grinned back, recalling how he'd once more left his fellow knight at the barmaid's mercy the night before—but well, it had been that or breaking a rib trying not to laugh at how helpless Percival had seemed in the face of the woman's attentions. The way he saw it, Gwaine had left merely to preserve Percival's pride.

His amusement must have been plainly written across his features, because Percival rolled his eyes and looked away, clearly still cross with him, although Gwaine knew he'd been forgiven.

He shortened the reins a little to keep Gryngolet from barging into Lancelot's horse in his excitement at being outside. It was still early, and although it was market day, the people in the lower town had barely begun to set up their stands so that no flocks of tarrying customers hindered their way. Gwaine spared a brief look at the outlying fields when they passed the city walls, at the sprawling grass that was just waiting to be grazed by sheep. The forest was looming just beyond, the bright green of new leaves already changing into the darker hue that came with much sunlight and rain, a sure sign that spring was well under way. Even this early, the sun was already warm on his back, the previous headache almost forgotten, and Arthur led them on the road leading north.

 

 

They didn't stop to rest until the sun was high in the sky, and even then, Arthur barely allowed them enough of a break to wolf down some field rations. Gwaine didn't mind, though—they had reached the Darkling Woods already, with the horses well-rested and eager after the long winter mostly spent in the stables. It was nice to sit in the shade under the oaks and eat, but even nicer to wrestle his weight back up onto Gryngolet and move on.

Morning mist was still hovering beneath the trees, a last remnant of early spring, but although he had pushed them to a rather quick pace in the morning, Arthur now allowed them to slow down; Gwaine guessed that he wanted them to stay in the woods until the sun had passed its zenith. Summer was not increasing the sun's warmth to sweltering heat just yet, with Beltane still several weeks away, but even in the shady forest, it got quite warm. Gwaine eventually took off his coat and draped it over Gryngolet's left saddlebag, and the horse retaliated by pulling the reins through his hands. He thought he heard a quickly-smothered chuckle somewhere from his left, but when Gwaine looked to the side, still rubbing his sore palms, Elyan was studiously looking straight ahead.

It felt good to be on the road again—as comfortable as life was in Camelot, it was odd to wake up in the same bed each morning. Come to think of it, it was odd to wake up in a bed at all. Gwaine figured that that was what people meant when they talked about home, and the steady routine of getting up in time for drills each morning did make him feel safe and sheltered in a way. But after a while it had begun to chafe just slightly, a restless itch building under his skin as the last of the snow melted and the sun began to coax the countryside back to hesitant green life. He simply wasn't used to staying in the same place for so long, he'd never been the type to settle down, and now he was just glad to be _doing_ something, to leave the oppressive city walls for the sprawling meadows of late spring.

But all in all, Gwaine was rather surprised by how much he enjoyed being a knight of Camelot, and it wasn't just the Rising Sun's connections to the kingdom's best breweries that made him stay. Arthur had turned out to be quite a nice chap as well, if one looked past his ego and at the steady, unflinching bravery beneath. Nobility was still not something Gwaine would ever bow to, but courage was something he understood and respected—not that he'd ever tell the prince. And besides, it was fun to brush up his swordsmanship with the other knights, tease Percival about how many interested female gazes came to rest on him during an average day, or watch Lancelot flush and sputter a decline when Gwaine invited him for a drink and some fun with the barmaids.

And so Gwaine had figured he'd stick around for a while, if only because Merlin seemed to like his company—and for some reason, Merlin had been walking around with a face like a thundercloud these past two months. Well, _Arthur_ had been walking around with a face like a thundercloud—Merlin's was more like a raincloud, come to think of it. A raincloud that the sun kept trying to break through in bouts of forced cheer that fooled no one whenever Gwaine asked him what was wrong.

His eyes came to rest on Merlin on its own accord, and he frowned despite himself. Merlin was riding right behind Arthur, the packhorse trudging along next to him, but it was his expression that caught Gwaine's eye. His gaze was so intensely focused on Arthur's back that Gwaine half expected the prince's coat to catch fire any second, his features drawn tight with nervousness, as though he was hoping for Arthur to call him to his side.

But Merlin wasn't the best of riders, and his horse kept starting forward on occasion, urged on by the clumsy press of his heels to its flanks. From the various hunts the knights had been on during the past few months, Gwaine knew Llamrei to be an exceptionally patient mare, but she still shied slightly whenever Merlin's horse nearly bumped into her, tossing her head in obvious indignation when Arthur reined her back in.

It was fairly odd to watch, the back-and-forth change between Merlin's tries to get his horse as close to Llamrei as possible and his contrite expression whenever she darted forward. Gwaine could see Arthur's hands tighten progressively on the reins when they rounded a bend in the forest trail; a muscle in his cheek twitched, the only sign of mounting irritation in his otherwise stony expression. But for a long while, he didn't say anything, as if he wanted to give Merlin the chance to stop urging his horse forward by himself.

Finally, though, Llamrei jumped forward like she'd had enough, breaking into a brief trot before Arthur slowed her back down. "Back _off_ , Merlin, would you," he snapped, without so much as turning to look over his shoulder; his tone struck Gwaine as unreasonably harsh, something more than mere irritation hidden beneath the words.

"Yes, sire," Merlin said, subdued, and Gwaine caught sight of his expression as he fell back a little to give Arthur more room. It was just a brief glimpse, but it was enough to see the guilt in Merlin's eyes, too sharp and pained to just be the result of a little too enthusiastic riding.

Gwaine shook his head, frowning, barely noticing that next to him, Elyan's confused gaze was traveling back and forth between Merlin and Arthur as well. Gryngolet snorted in protest when Gwaine's heels met his flanks, but he quickened his pace with minimal fussing, although Gwaine had to hold on to the saddle when his steed jumped forward. He quickly ducked to avoid low-hanging branches as he directed Gryngolet's trot past Merlin, who gave him a quizzical look, and finally let him fall in step with Llamrei.

"Good day for a quest," he remarked airily, ignoring the wary look Arthur shot him. The surge of anger hadn't quite left the prince's eyes yet, but it was withdrawing like a wave receding from a shore.

Gwaine just gave him a sunny smile, leaning forward and out of the way of another branch—Gryngolet seemed to be doing it on purpose, keeping mostly to the side of the trail to let his rider fend off the scrape of twigs through his hair. Distraction worked best to cool inexplicably worked up tempers, Gwaine reminded himself, straightening up once more. And well, he could do that.

"Not that I object to this lovely ride," he began, carefully steering Gryngolet closer to Llamrei and away from the trees, "but I still don't understand what we're supposed to do. Some nobles kicked the bucket, fine—they weren't even in Camelot. Why should their deaths matter to us at all?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, and Gwaine suppressed a smile, feeling fairly triumphant that his strategy was already working so well. Somehow, he had an inkling that whatever had made Arthur snap at Merlin was the same thing that had been locking him into an irritable, brooding silence for the past few months. And frankly, if he were Arthur, he'd have gotten heartily sick of giving himself premature wrinkles with that constant frown he wore, and Gwaine felt honor-bound to help him turn that frown upside down, if only for a short while.

"Well, they were still potential allies, and it _does_ matter if Camelot's future northern vassals die one by one," Arthur replied, with the sort of patience that Gwaine had heard him use in the training grounds whenever a young knight was being particularly dense. "Besides, the Northern Plains are a strategically valuable region, with their coast lines and mountainous terrain. We've been building those alliances for years."

Gwaine frowned, not quite seeing what Arthur was getting at. He just wasn't good at understanding this whole diplomacy thing. "But Camelot just won a war, King Cenred is dead and I know that you've been sending out patrols to push the border further into Escetia," he pointed out. "Even without those vassals, I don't think there's any king who'd be stupid enough to attack you now."

"Don't be so sure," Arthur said, his face darkening again. "We're not the only ones who've been securing what used to be Cenred's lands for ourselves. Mercia is doing the same—actually, some of our patrols came back reporting skirmishes with Bayard's forces. He's just as eager to extend his kingdom."

Maybe it was unconscious, born of years of habit, but Arthur was talking loudly enough for Merlin, who was riding along behind them, to understand every word. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine could see that Merlin was listening intently, unconsciously pushing his horse forward and dangerously close to Llamrei's swishing tail again. Arthur still looked troubled, but Gwaine thought he didn't seem as snappish and irritated anymore, and so he counted it as a victory anyway.

"My father thinks that it's Bayard who's killing off those nobles to weaken our northern flank, or maybe just to distract us so we'll leave Escetia to him," Arthur said after a pause. Suddenly, Gwaine became acutely aware of the utter silence behind them, broken only by the dull thumps of the horses' hooves on the ground and the creaking of leather when someone shifted in their saddle. It seemed like the rest of the knights were listening too, intent on finding out more about their quest as well.

"That's why we're being stealthy, riding without armor and all," Gwaine concluded, feeling a few of the tumbling puzzle pieces in his head fall into place. "So that even if Bayard sent spies into the Northern Plains, they won't know Camelot is investigating the vassals' deaths."

"Exactly," Arthur replied, but it sounded absent, like he was still mulling over something else he had said. Gwaine thought of the argument that the king and the prince had had about the thing with the armor, and got the feeling that maybe it hadn't been the only time Arthur and his father had quarreled over the past few months.

"And what do _you_ think?" Gwaine pressed; he wasn't going to let him off the hook this quickly. "What's going on with those dead people?"

Arthur sighed, and suddenly, the inexplicably cross expression from before was back, as though Gwaine had never taken his mind off of whatever Merlin must have done to irritate him. "I don't know," he said, glaring straight ahead into the forest as if it was the trees' fault. His voice was quieter when he continued, though, and Gwaine thought that for some reason he sounded reluctant, like he knew that everyone was listening to their conversation and didn't really want to divulge this piece of information just yet. "The locals have reported strange, probably magical occurrences in connection with the vassals' deaths. The messengers didn't state it outright, but—"

"They didn't want the whole army to come swooping down on their heads," Gwaine finished for him when Arthur paused for too long, nodding, and pretended not to notice the way Arthur's hands tightened on the reins. He wisely said nothing more, well aware that even away from the confines of the castle, the king's recent affinity for rash decisions—and Arthur's struggle to stay his hand—was a subject that was best not talked about.

Merlin was ominously silent behind them. Well, he'd been silent all along, but the hush seemed strained now, like he wanted to say something but barely managed to hold his tongue. His eyes were fixed on Arthur's back when Gwaine risked another glance in his direction, almost as though he was silently asking Arthur why he hadn't told him about that yet.

Gwaine cleared his throat. "Well, my sovereign liege," he said, in as solemn a tone as he could manage while doing his best to bow to Arthur while sitting in a saddle, "lead the way to Sir Whatshisface's abode, and I shall loyally follow—"

"Sir _Ricbert_ , if you please" Arthur interrupted, but the stern look he'd schooled his face into was undermined by the minute twitching of his mouth. Someone snorted behind them, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

Gwaine just shrugged amicably, though, and tightened his hold on Gryngolet's reins to get him to slow down again. The stallion retaliated by stepping viciously into a large, muddy puddle of late spring rain that had collected on the trail, and Gwaine sighed, well aware that he'd have to brush the brown spots of mud from the horse's coat by the end of the day. He'd probably get kicked a lot for his efforts, too.

But when he'd fallen back into his earlier position at Elyan's side, Arthur's back didn't seem quite as ramrod straight anymore. Moreover, his shoulders looked outright relaxed as opposed to their earlier tightness, and Gwaine grinned, congratulating himself on a job well done.

 

 

All in all, Merlin figured that the spectacular tumble he took from his horse's back must have looked pretty funny, and so he didn't feel all too miffed at the quickly-smothered chuckle from behind him.

He groaned and rolled over onto his back, gingerly moving his arms and legs, but nothing seemed to be broken or even particularly bruised. Sitting up slowly, he saw that he'd conveniently fallen onto a patch of grass, and that his horse was looking at him with what he thought seemed like an apologetic expression. He'd just meant to dismount, but somehow his foot had gotten caught in the stirrup and he'd overbalanced and slid out of the saddle to land in a sprawl of limbs.

"All right?" somebody inquired from above, and Merlin squinted upwards to see Leon standing next to him, looking just as apologetic as the horse—it was probably him who'd let that single chuff of laughter escape before getting a hold on himself.

"Yeah," Merlin said, and took Leon's hand to let himself be hauled back up into a standing position. He smiled at him as he dusted off his trousers. "No harm done."

Leon smiled back, obviously relieved that Merlin wasn't holding his amusement against him. He handed him the packhorse's reins, and Merlin was once again grateful to have been assigned to care for two such peaceful, complacent animals—the stablehand who'd chosen them obviously knew that he wasn't that good a rider. He'd gotten far better ever since he'd arrived at Camelot, though, especially once Arthur had actually taken the time to instruct him when he'd realized that Merlin didn't keep falling off of horses just to spite him.

He could still see it, the way the sunlight had glinted on Arthur's hair where he'd stood in the middle of one of the fields, with Merlin bouncing around awkwardly on Llamrei's back as Arthur taught him how to better shift his weight. It had been shortly after the Questing Beast, and Arthur's left-handed grip on the long rope he'd attached to Llamrei's bridle had been precarious at best. But Llamrei wasn't his favorite mare for nothing, and she patiently cantered round her master in circle after circle as Merlin's white-knuckled fingers gradually loosened their hold on her mane, his seat steadying more and more under Arthur's surprisingly patient instruction.

The thought stung, even if it was nice to remember the way Arthur had smiled at him when Merlin had finally felt confident enough to take up the reins, a little wistful and fiercely proud. It was probably the dimming evening twilight—usually he was fairly good at pushing thoughts like that out of his mind before they got the chance to stick and grow. But he was exhausted after a day spent on horseback, after all, and so Merlin allowed himself a much-needed moment to shove the memory away.

"I'll help," Leon offered when Merlin started to fumble with the straps that kept their bags on the horse's back, mercifully oblivious to what had been running through his mind. The look he gave Merlin was sympathetic, and Merlin smiled back with some difficulty—Leon probably thought he was just bruised from his fall.

They unloaded the supplies in silence, but this time it felt companionable rather than awkward; compared with the _other_ silence he'd endured all day, it was an outright relief. The others were setting up camp, and Arthur and Percival had already ventured out into the woods to hunt for dinner. What with how Arthur had pushed them, they'd made it pretty far within the day—they had reached the northern edge of the Darkling Woods, and Merlin guessed that they were fairly close to Camelot's border by now. Their party would probably break up some time tomorrow afternoon—Percival, Elyan and the squires were supposed to stay near the border, paying visits to the vassals there, while the rest of them would venture further into the Northern Plains.

The squires had held up rather admirably throughout the day, all things considered. They were no more used to long rides than Merlin was, but they didn't look as stiff and sore as he felt. He could see them gather firewood on the other side of the small clearing they were going to sleep in, quietly chatting to each other and straightening up respectfully whenever a knight came near them. Their names were Gaheris and Dagonet, if Merlin remembered correctly, but he hadn't actually spoken to them that much. Gaheris had very courteously asked him whether he needed any help when Merlin had struggled back into the saddle after they'd paused for lunch, and Dagonet had a reputation among the servants for being a bit of a prankster, but other than that, Merlin didn't know anything about them.

Between the two of them, Leon and Merlin freed the packhorse from its baggage and the saddle; Leon expertly hobbled it to let it roam the clearing with the other horses without wandering too far away. Elyan, Lancelot and Gwaine had taken up the task of putting everyone's bedrolls in a neat circle around the freshly-crackling fire, and Merlin heard the quiet chatter of conversation drift over from their general direction. Well, they _were_ knights, after all, but Merlin still found it a bit disheartening that he seemed to be the only one who was tired and saddle-sore.

With much rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs, Arthur and Percival returned to the clearing, each of them carrying dead rabbits. Nobody wasted any time in skinning the animals and spitting them above the fire—Merlin's stomach rumbled as the first drops of fat dripped into the fire, sizzling and gradually spreading the scent of grilled meat around the clearing. He hadn't eaten since lunch, but he hadn't really noticed how hungry he'd gotten until now.

Everyone assembled around the fire when the first two rabbits were done, perching on fallen logs that Gaheris and Dagonet had dragged into the clearing. Merlin hovered uncertainly for a moment, but finally sat down next to Leon, with Lancelot between him and Arthur. The only alternative would've been to sit on the other side of the fire, in Arthur's direct line of sight, and as tired as he was, Merlin wasn't sure if he could have dealt with that. He doubted Arthur wanted to look at him all evening anyway.

The rabbit was delicious and wonderfully filling, and Merlin kept silent during the meal, listening to the fractions of conversation that the quietude stirred up here and there. Dagonet was trying to find someone to bet against with regard to how long Gwaine would manage to stay on Gryngolet's back the next day, but although no one stepped up, Gwaine took it in good humor. Spurred on by the wineskin the knights were passing around, he told them how the stallion had thrown him in the courtyard, and Merlin smiled absently when he heard Arthur's laughter mingle with the others'.

They each went to their bedrolls after the meal, too fatigued from the long ride to stay up. Arthur took the first watch, although both Leon and Lancelot tried to dissuade him and tell him surreptitiously that he looked just as tired as everyone else and would most likely fall asleep. Gwaine just clapped Arthur on the shoulder and thanked him for nobly sacrificing his sleep for the sake of his knights, as any self-respecting crown prince should, and settled down in his bedroll, unconcerned by the halfhearted glare Arthur gave him.

Merlin was the last to stand up, and felt more than heard his bones creak in protest. He stifled a groan at the sharp stings that shot through the overworked muscles in his legs—he'd be stiff as a log tomorrow, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. Arthur remained seated, but the way he stared into the fire seemed too focused, like he was putting a conscious effort into not looking up.

If this had been just any other normal hunting trip, Arthur would have been ribbing him already for his poor horsemanship, and for a moment Merlin almost wished that Arthur would ask him again, in as mocking a tone as he pleased, if his bottom was sore. Merlin sighed at the thought, taking care not to trip over anyone else's legs as he picked his way to the opposite side of the fire. If he'd sunk low enough to wish for _insults_ already, things were bad.

He curled up in his own bedroll, listening to the rustle of leaves and the occasional cries of nocturnal birds from the forest around them. A large waxing moon had risen above the trees, shedding a faint, blueish light over the clearing. Merlin could already hear soft snores from the squires' general direction, and from the sound of their deepening breathing, Leon and Percival were falling asleep as well on either side of him. Elyan grumbled about a rock poking him in the back and dragged his bedroll a little to the side, apparently stepping on Lancelot in the process, if the muffled exclamation of pain was anything to go by. Frantic apologies followed, at least until Gwaine declared loudly that if he had wanted to sleep amidst a noisy lot of blokes, he'd have found some bears to bed down with. There was a bit of muffled muttering from Lancelot and Elyan's direction, but the camp gradually fell silent until the nightly sounds of the forest and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds breaking the hush.

Merlin shifted, careful not to make too much noise, until the fire edged into his vision and he could see Arthur, still sitting on the log and staring at the flames as though in deep thought. The flickering light painted strange shadows on his features, and Merlin found himself silently agreeing with Leon and Lancelot—he really did look tired. Come to think of it, he had looked tired ever since Morgana's betrayal, but it seemed different out here in the forest than it had against the familiar backdrop of Camelot's citadel.

Watching the firelight glint on Arthur's hair was oddly hypnotic, and Merlin drew his blanket a little more tightly around himself when he felt the beginnings of sleep tug on his mind. He thought, somewhat absently, that Arthur's features looked just as tight and drawn as they had in the courtyard when Gwen had said goodbye to Lancelot. Merlin actually hadn't seen Arthur talk to Gwen at all since the feast—well, he greeted her courteously enough when they met in a corridor, but he didn't seem to notice the way Gwen sometimes turned to look after him, her expression conflicted and a little puzzled. She'd been talking to Lancelot a lot more too, but whether to escape Arthur's brooding silence or to simply spend time with the other knight, Merlin didn't know.

If someone had asked Merlin, he would have said that Arthur had seen the fleeting looks Gwen and Lancelot had exchanged whenever they'd run into each other during the aftermath of the war with Cenred. And Arthur had started to back off, giving Gwen the chance to turn to Lancelot because, what with the prince being the noble idiot he was, Arthur obviously thought that Lancelot was better suited to openly show that he cared for Gwen. But of course no one asked Merlin, and so he kept that thought to himself.

A glint of metal caught his attention; Arthur was lining up his knives on the log next to him, his movements methodical and absent-minded, born of routine rather than conscious thought. Like the others, he was dressed for hunting rather than battle, and so his sword was still in the leather sheath attached to Llamrei's saddle. He carried two daggers with him, though, and a larger one on the left side of his belt, as well as a small throwing knife in his right boot. Merlin smiled to himself, privately pleased that he still knew Arthur's weapons inside and out although he wasn't allowed to take care of them anymore.

Initially, Merlin had been surprised when he'd gone down to the armory and found Arthur's armor already polished and gleaming in the sunlight that trickled in through the small windows. It had been the day Arthur had finally spoken to him again, and in retrospect, Merlin felt foolish for the surge of relief that had coursed through him. If only he'd stopped to think, he would have seen that Arthur wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily—but he'd just been giddy with relief at the fact that Arthur had _talked_ to him, even if it had just been a random order, delivered in a far harsher tone than usual.

Then he'd found out that the armorer was taking care of Arthur's weapons and armor now, by order of the prince himself, and in his hurt confusion, it had taken Merlin a few days to understand. The close-knit links of the hauberk and the metal pauldron and vambraces were often the only thing that stood between Arthur and death, and his sword, his daggers and the crossbow were his best defense against his enemies. Arthur had to be able to trust his armor and his weapons, and he was not going to leave them in the care of a sorcerer.

Just like the silence and the brooding, betrayed looks Arthur shot at him when he thought he didn't notice, Merlin had taken that particular injury and locked it away. It felt like an invisible compartment in the back of his head that got bigger as time wore on, but Merlin had stubbornly hidden the key and pretended that the orders Arthur snapped at him day after day were enough. And in a way, they had been, until Arthur had told him to attend to him at the feast and Merlin's hope had soared. Maybe Arthur would have spoken to him that evening, maybe he would have unleashed a bit of the furious hurt that Merlin saw lurking behind the impersonal flat gazes sometimes—Merlin would have welcomed it, he would gladly have endured any and all accusations Arthur might have thrown at him, because it would have been _something_ , at least more than silence.

But then the Green Knight's arrival had shattered the surprising alertness the king had showed all evening, and from then on Merlin had known that Arthur wouldn't speak to him that day. Merlin hadn't even found it in himself to feel offended at the slam of Arthur's door in his face, since he knew what was in store for the prince now. He was going to spend the next few days trying to rouse his father from the strange absentmindedness he had fallen into once more, all the while struggling to tread lightly lest Uther flew into a fit of overblown suspicion, seeing a threat to the kingdom in every petitioner that stood before his throne.

Merlin sighed, and finally rolled over onto his other side, leaving Arthur to his silent contemplation of the flames. He just had to keep hoping, he told himself as he felt his eyelids begin to droop—their truce at Camelot had been precarious at best, but now this break in their routine was threatening to stir it all up again. He found himself welcoming it, though, because even if Arthur's hold on his self-control snapped and he shouted at him until Merlin felt like little more than a smear of treacherous dirt on the ground, it would be a step forward. And maybe, just maybe, he would be given the chance to speak then, to blurt out all the explanations and apologies that had built up inside his head over the past few weeks, once Arthur's anger had burned itself out.

The trees were swaying lazily, leaves rustling in a breeze that didn't reach down to their clearing—Merlin thought drowsily that they looked a bit like large, slightly drunk dancers, tipping clumsily back and forth. A large bird was sitting on a low-hanging branch, cocking its head to regard their camp with beady eyes; a loud crackle from the fire made it fly away, launching upwards into the night sky with a flurry of wings.

Merlin's eyes slipped shut to the memory of black feathers glossed over with moonlight, and his last conscious thought was that it hadn't looked like any of the nocturnal birds he knew before he dropped off into sleep.

 

 

They reached the border two days later, and if anyone had asked Arthur why he'd chosen exactly that route for them, he would have said that he preferred to cross into the Northern Plains under the cover of a thick, mountainous forest.

Which was true, of course—but Arthur also remembered the area from when his father had taken him on a journey through the northern part of their kingdom. Moreover, he remembered that there was a lake just beyond the border, sheltered in the midst of the hilly wood and fed by one of the numerous rivers that ran through the forest. And well, they'd spent the past three days on horseback in rather warm weather, and by now Arthur was all but dying for a bath (and if Gwaine called him spoiled _one more time_ , Arthur would instigate an impromptu sparring match to teach him some respect, Leon's placating glances be damned).

The water was so cold that it took his breath away, a feeling like the pinpricks of thousands of icy needles spreading over his skin, but Arthur still waited until his lungs weren't seizing up quite as violently anymore before pushing himself back up to the surface. The morning breeze felt even colder, and Arthur allowed himself a moment of gasping for air and squinting into the early sunlight. It wasn't a real bath by any means, more like a quick dip, but it was as cleansing as it was refreshing, the cold chasing the last vestiges of sleep from his mind.

Arthur had always thought that it felt odd to be away from Camelot, no matter how many patrols into foreign territory he had been on, and this time was no different. The Northern Plains weren't even particularly hostile land, and he knew that he would be far more wary and on his guard if they'd journeyed into Mercia, despite the peace treaty. But being outside the borders of Camelot's jurisdiction automatically put him on his guard, and he was just a bit more careful in choosing their nightly camp sites, a bit more vigilant when he scanned the woods around them as they followed the winding, mountainous trail that would eventually lead them to their first stop.

The village was called Treffynnon, situated next to a river that flowed out into the sea; in fact, if Arthur remembered the maps correctly, he was fairly sure they'd already crossed the river shortly after passing over the border. Arthur had never met or corresponded with Sir Ricbert, the first of the dead nobles, but according to his father, he had been a complacent, friendly man, a bit miserly at times, but easy to negotiate with. At any rate, the messengers had said that the village was prospering, and Arthur doubted that a peasant had murdered the man anyway.

He shook himself out of his thoughts with some difficulty—he'd still have more than enough time to pore over this particular mysterious death, as well as all the others—and dunked under once more. His fingers and toes were starting to go numb, and his skin felt like it had been sandpapered, but the cold cleared his mind, and when his head broke the surface again he felt ready for another day on horseback.

Save for the ripples that his movements sent across the surface, the water around him was almost eerily still—he had waded just far enough for the water to come up to his waist. The rosy sunlight turned the lake into a slate of gold foil, and Arthur spotted a doe standing far away on the opposite shore. Despite the swaying long grass that grew on the hillside, it wasn't grazing—its gaze seemed to be resting on him, calm and unafraid for the distance between them, and Arthur smiled absently as he turned around.

The smile froze on his face when he saw Merlin standing at the shore.

As far as he could tell, Merlin was just waiting for him to be done with his bath—he was looking at Arthur but hadn't yet noticed his gaze on him; he was just staring in his general direction with a vacant, oddly forlorn expression. Still, Arthur felt his heartbeat speed up uselessly, trying to pump enough blood into his half-numbed limbs to stir his muscles into action. Who knew how long Merlin had been standing there, and Arthur had had his back turned to him the entire time, too caught up in his thoughts to have heard his approach—

 _No_ , Arthur thought, with a vigor that surprised him, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He didn't _want_ to be thinking that Merlin could easily have attacked him from behind, because out here, in the still morning air, the mere thought seemed so ridiculous that Arthur felt an unbidden laugh bubble up in his throat. He choked it back down with some difficulty, and their gazes locked when he opened his eyes again. Merlin made a short, aborted movement as though he was thinking about making a run for it, but in the end he just shifted his weight with obvious unease, an absent hand starting to play with the too-long cuff of his sleeve.

Although the wariness in his eyes allowed for little more than a twitch of his lips, Merlin still made an effort to smile when their gazes met, and said, with a tentative hopefulness that pulled at something hidden and forgotten in Arthur's chest, "Good morning."

Arthur just looked at him for a long moment, at the skittish wariness in Merlin's eyes, the minute shuffle of his feet that looked like he was getting ready to obey if Arthur ordered him to leave. But somehow, the words refused to come. Merlin had probably wondered about his absence, since Arthur hadn't told him that he was going for a swim; he must have followed Arthur's trail of snapped twigs and flattened grass to the lake. Arthur was well acquainted with Merlin's ridiculous tendency to worry about even the simplest things, and he could just guess what kinds of scenarios Merlin's mind had come up with—the prince floating lifelessly through the water, strangled by a sea monster or just an unfortunate tangle of algae while his knights were just beginning to rouse after a night of uncomfortable sleep on the forest ground.

He must have followed Arthur like he had countless times before, with the simple intention of making sure that he was alright. Arthur took a deep breath, and although the tightness in his chest didn't let up, it was surprisingly easy to keep his voice even as he replied, "Good morning."

Merlin's answering smile should have triggered a smile of his own, relieved as it looked, but for some reason it just stirred up a slow, simmering coil of remembered anger. Arthur remembered that smile, the tremulous curve of Merlin's lips that poorly concealed a tangle of conflicting emotions. He'd seen it once before, in another situation where Merlin had looked this hapless and thoroughly unable to gauge Arthur's reaction. The dim firelight had done nothing to disguise the hope and the fear in Merlin's too-bright eyes back then, and if Arthur hadn't been so preoccupied by staring at the quill that hovered in the air in front of him, he might even have teased him about it.

He didn't feel much like teasing him now either, and so he just set his features into a frown and started striding back towards the shore. Merlin blinked, clearly puzzled by what he'd done in the past few seconds to pull the customary scowl back onto Arthur's face, but with that particular memory stuck in front of his mind's eye, it was all Arthur could do _not_ to snap at him to leave. No matter when or how it crossed his mind, shoving it away never got easier, and by now he had turned it over in his head so many times that it felt like the dams of his self-control were barely holding in an ever-increasing avalanche of anger, shocked betrayal, and something that didn't want to name because it felt dangerously close to pain.

But Merlin hadn't done anything this time—in fact, he hadn't done anything worth yelling at him for for a long time. It was frustrating, in a way, that Merlin had transformed himself into the perfect servant that everyone knew he wasn't as soon as Arthur had found it in himself to talk to him again. Maybe things would be different between them now if Merlin had only stayed his usual bumbling, hapless self—that way, Arthur could have shouted at him for the past two months, or however long it would have taken for the sickening roil of accusing anger to cease.

He wasn't quite sure _how_ things would be different between them now, but he was willing to believe that it was Merlin's fault that they weren't. It would have been unfair to snap at him now, though, because Merlin had done nothing worse than to wish him a good morning, and so Arthur stopped a few paces from the shore, the water lapping lazily at his stomach, and gave him a pointed look.

"Oh," Merlin said after a puzzled pause, flushing, and scrambled backwards as though Arthur had pointed a crossbow at him. "I'll just, um—"

He waved vaguely in the general direction of their camp, looking rather crestfallen at the prospect of returning to the company of the knights, and Arthur realized, with a dim sort of surprise, that this was the first time he'd been alone with Merlin ever since that evening when Merlin had told Arthur he was a sorcerer. The apprehensive hope in Merlin's eyes suddenly made a lot more sense—he probably thought that if he just presented Arthur without enough opportunities to yell at him in private, he would eventually be forgiven.

The thought should have made him scoff at Merlin's naivety—how _dare_ he assume that everything was going to be fine and dandy if he just stuck around for long enough?—but when Arthur opened his mouth, the words that tumbled out were, "Pass me my clothes."

Merlin froze, half suspended between turning away and turning back around to face him. Arthur stared at the stiff set of his shoulders for a long moment, feeling oddly imbalanced and out of his depth—he hadn't _meant_ to say that, the order had just fallen from his mouth without his consent. But although he wasn't sure if he even wanted Merlin to stay, his mind was curiously empty of anything at all that could have sent him away.

Then Merlin bent down to collect his clothes where Arthur had carelessly dropped them on the mossy ground earlier, and Arthur released a slow breath, stepping towards the shore and out of the water. A towel was lying on an outcropping of rock, neatly folded, and Arthur quickly dried the water from his skin before taking the bundle of clothes from Merlin's outstretched hand. Merlin didn't turn back around to face him, but he wasn't walking away either, and the tips of his ears had gone red.

As Arthur shrugged on his shirt and tied the laces of his breeches, it occurred to him that his clothes were oddly warm, like they had been treated to an hour of sunlight, rather than having lain crumpled up on dew-covered moss. Then he remembered the quill, and decided not to dwell on it. The warmth felt good on his chilled skin, after all, and somehow he was reluctant to shatter the quietness of the morning with inquiries of whether Merlin had really _used magic_ just now, just to warm his clothes. And so he remained silent, but he took care not to brush Merlin's arm with his own as he walked past him.

The sound of voices drifted towards them from the camp's general direction, and Merlin hurried to his side a moment later, carrying the towel. He was walking a bit too slowly, half a step behind Arthur, like he was taking great care not to step within arm's reach. The thought made an aimless surge of annoyance rush through him, and for a moment Arthur almost reached out to tug Merlin forward irritably until he was walking beside him. Then it occurred to him that that was exactly the sort of thing he would have done before Merlin had told him about his magic, and Arthur clenched his hands into fists.

"Hurry up," he said instead; the words came out gruff, more harshly than he'd intended, as though Arthur's vocal chords couldn't remember how _not_ to snap at Merlin after they had spent two months doing just that. "We have a long way to go."

"We do," Merlin agreed, his voice curiously soft, like he had caught on to some hidden meaning in the words. It took Arthur a moment to understand, and when he did, he wished he hadn't. Another surge of useless irritation pulsed through him, but he did not say, _"And whose fault is that?"_ , because he knew that the crestfallen looks that Merlin gave him when he said things like that no longer made him feel better.

The words hovered on his tongue, though, like poison that wanted to be spat out. He gritted his teeth to prevent them from tumbling out, and sped up his steps as soon as he caught sight of the little clearing they had made camp in the night before. This time, Merlin didn't quicken his pace to catch up with him, but Arthur didn't know whether to feel relieved or not.

 

 

By the time they arrived at Treffynnon, Gwaine was really, really longing for a stiff drink.

During the past few days, he'd fervently (though silently) thanked the nameless servant that had been thoughtful enough to pack wineskins for them, but of course he couldn't just hog them for himself. Percival, Elyan and the squires had parted ways with them when they'd reached the border, and so Gwaine's shares of wine had gotten considerably larger—but still, the wine had nothing on his favorite kind of cider.

His opinion of Camelot's crown prince rose a few notches when Arthur led them to the local inn; the sun was low in the sky, and after a week of sleeping in forests, even Leon and Lancelot seemed cheered at the prospect of a warm bed for the night. Gwaine let his gaze travel around the large room as they waited for Arthur to negotiate a price for a night's stay at the inn—it looked tidy and well cared for, and altogether in far better shape than some of the taverns he had seen in his life. It didn't seem very well-attended, though, and the few guests were local farmers and peasants, if the wary looks they kept casting towards them were anything to go by.

The tinkling of coins drew his attention back to the prince, who was now paying for their rooms for the night. Arthur had taken great care to fill his pouch with well-chosen gold from the royal treasury—when Gwaine had asked, he'd explained that paying only with coins from Camelot would look suspicious, seeing as they were supposed to keep a low profile. He'd mingled Camelot's gold with money from Caerleon, packed a fair share of Mercian coins as well, and even a few that bore Cenred's crest.

The innkeeper, a middle-aged man whose face looked too pale and wan for the laugh lines around his eyes, accepted the payment without fuss, though. He told Arthur, in an oddly absent-minded tone, that his was only a small inn, and that they'd have to share the bedrooms in pairs if they all wanted a warm bed for the night. Merlin perked up at that, his eyes lighting up with the same odd, apprehensive hopefulness Gwaine had seen so frequently whenever he looked at Arthur, but Arthur made a face like he'd swallowed a hot coal.

Gwaine looked away again, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. As far as he could tell, neither of them had managed to pull their heads out of their asses so far, although the week of traveling had alleviated the tension between them to some extent. Gwaine still hadn't seen them talk, but at least they didn't avoid each other quite as much as they'd done before.

As if on cue, Arthur sent Merlin upstairs with their luggage without so much as turning to look at him. Merlin seemed thrilled, though—probably because the decision of who to share a room with had been left to him—and started hauling their bags in the general direction of the stairs. Lancelot courteously offered his help, which Merlin accepted with a smile that even looked genuine, and Gwaine wondered briefly if he'd decide to share a room with Arthur.

If he were Merlin, he would either steer clear of the prince or force him into close quarters—that way, he'd get the chance to poke and prod at Arthur's temper until it snapped and they'd _finally_ get to shout at each other over whatever had gone wrong between them. And as far as Gwaine could tell, Merlin seemed to be going with the second option so far, what with how he'd refused to back off even though Arthur had done his best to avoid him in Camelot.

Lancelot and Merlin disappeared up the slightly lopsided staircase, and Gwaine shook himself out of his thoughts, following Leon and Arthur to a table near the back of the room. The group of farmers still gave them glances of thinly-veiled suspicion, and Gwaine didn't like the way they kept whispering among themselves. But Arthur demonstratively sat down with his back to them, as if to emphasize that he really wasn't a warrior, but just a harmless traveler passing through the region, although Gwaine noticed that Leon took the seat opposite of the prince, so that he'd see it first if the group tried anything.

Arthur ordered a round of the tavern's best brew and a large dinner for them all, and Gwaine stopped thinking about the ongoing tiff between Merlin and the prince when a large pint of cider was set down in front of him. He gulped down the first few mouthfuls like he hadn't had anything to drink in days, but then he slowed and took the time to savor the flavor. In spite of the familiar heated burn of alcohol down his throat, there was just a hint of an apple's sweetness in the aftertaste, and Gwaine signaled to the innkeeper to order another pint before he had even finished his first.

A serving girl poked her head out of a door that Gwaine assumed led to the kitchen, but as soon as her gaze fell on their group, she was quick to close the door again. The people in these parts really didn't seem to like strangers that much, although he didn't see what their problem was, since they had just paid for a night at the inn and a large dinner. If Percival had been here, he probably would have heaved a sigh of relief, though, since the girl was obviously too skittish for Gwaine to have the heart to throw her at him. The thought made him grin—Gwaine had made it his personal mission to make sure Percival got laid, no matter how often his fellow knight claimed that even if he _were_ looking for a girl at all, he'd search for a woman who wouldn't just admire his muscles.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Merlin and Lancelot's return, and the other guests rose in an unspoken agreement, coins clinking on the table as they paid for their drinks. They seemed in a hurry to leave, like they feared being outnumbered by the strangers—a fair share of suspicious, mildly hostile glances were cast in their general direction as the group walked past them to the door. Although Gwaine could see a muscle twitch in Arthur's jaw, the prince remained silent and kept his eyes down, obviously not looking for a confrontation with the locals just now. Leon slowly leaned back in his chair, pretending to stretch, but Gwaine knew that his hand was resting on the dagger at his hip.

The door slammed shut behind the farmers just as Merlin and Lancelot reached them, and Leon sat up again with a relieved-sounding sigh, letting go of his dagger. There was a mildly awkward pause, but then Merlin took a seat between Leon and Gwaine, Lancelot sitting down at Arthur's other side. The innkeeper brought a pile of dishes and a large steaming pot of stew, and for a while nobody said anything as they dug in, relishing in the taste of something else than dried fruit and grilled rabbit.

The light in the room had dimmed by the time Gwaine set down his spoon at last and returned to his pint of cider, feeling pleasantly full and a bit tired after the day's ride. Gryngolet had kept him quite busy, prancing out of their formation as if he wanted to charge headfirst into the thick forest, but fortunately Gwaine had always managed to rein him back in. As much as he had initially resented Arthur for giving him the single most disobedient horse from the royal stables, Gwaine had grown oddly fond of his steed's antics over the past week. Although he'd understood Gryngolet's urge to break away from their slow pace and just race through the forest until he grew tired, he hadn't allowed him to go through with it—the terrain was quite mountainous, and he didn't want Gryngolet to break a leg when sliding down a hill.

The innkeeper had been bustling around the room as they'd eaten, lighting a few candles on the windowsills to ward off the growing twilight. Torches lined the walls and a large chandelier was hanging from the ceiling, but apparently the man wanted to save those for a busier night. Now he was wiping down the table that the farmers had sat at earlier, his back not quite turned to them.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught Gwaine's attention, and when he glanced up, Arthur was lounging comfortably in his chair, his relaxed posture belied by the quick glance he exchanged with Lancelot. Despite the vaguely fuzzy feeling that was spreading through his head because of the cider, Gwaine found himself sitting up a little straighter. It seemed like Arthur had decided to finally get down to business and address the issue that had brought them here in the first place.

"This cider is very good," the prince declared, in the careless, lofty tone of someone who'd had a little too much to drink and didn't mind his words anymore, although Gwaine knew that he hadn't drunk enough for his wit to be dulled. "Tell me, who is the nobleman we have to thank for your well-stocked brewery?"

"That was Sir Ricbert, sir," the innkeeper replied after a somewhat wary pause, as if he was thoroughly unused to being complimented for the quality of his drinks. "He— well, he's dead now, though."

"Oh," Arthur said, carefully feigning surprise, and shook his head lightly like he couldn't believe it. "I'm sorry to hear that. I heard he was a good swordsman—whoever bested him must have been a marvelous warrior indeed."

The man paused again, but this time he seemed to be weighing his options. He was still clutching the rag he had used to wipe down the table, his small, watery eyes drifting between them, and Gwaine was a little dismayed, though not particularly surprised, to recognize the wearily suspicious, exhausted air of someone who had lived in fear for long months.

"No warrior, sir," he replied at last, with as heavy a sigh as though he had to put a conscious effort into pushing out the words. "We know nothing about what exactly happened, but no mortal man could have done _that_."

"Done what?" Lancelot asked, pushing his half empty mug of cider away—the movement looked idle to the untrained eye, but Gwaine caught the sharp alertness in his gaze anyway. Merlin and Leon had leaned forward, the previous tiredness chased from their features now that they were about to get at the information they had come here to retrieve.

The innkeeper put down his rag and leaned back against the table. "Sir Ricbert used to live right by the sea with his wife and sister," he began, slowly, like he had to think hard about each word before he spoke; "it's a large house, a mansion really, you couldn't miss it if you tried."

He paused, and Gwaine saw his hand clench around the tabletop for support; a gnawing feeling of unease was beginning to stir in his stomach by now, but he knew that it wasn't because of the drinks he'd had. "His family has disappeared, we know not where," the innkeeper said, still speaking slowly, although now it seemed like a poor effort at concealing his trepidation at the topic. "We reckon they fled. _Anyone_ would have made a run for it, after what happened to the mansion. I've never seen anything like it. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was—"

The man broke off, his eyes going wide as he realized what he'd been about to say, but everyone had caught on to the unspoken word anyway. "Magic," Leon finished, carefully, his tone half a question, but the innkeeper nodded, looking relieved that he didn't have to say it out loud.

Gwaine noticed the way his gaze kept flickering between Arthur and the knights as if he was afraid they'd pull their daggers on him for having so much as dared to insinuate that sorcery was at work in his hometown. Something must have given them away, Gwaine concluded, and the innkeeper probably knew they were from Camelot by now—there was no other reason for him to be wary of talking about magic in their presence.

Arthur didn't bat an eye, though, and kept up the politely curious expression, although Gwaine noticed a new tightness around his mouth. From the corner of his eye he saw Merlin lean back slowly as if he was surreptitiously trying to edge out of Arthur's field of vision, but Arthur had his eyes fixed on the innkeeper and didn't even look in Merlin's direction.

"All I know is that some strange man passed through these parts, barely a week before Sir Ricbert died," the innkeeper said, a little defensively, like he was only continuing his tale to draw their attention away from his near slip-up. "He never even showed up here—probably thought himself too high and mighty to sleep in an inn like any other self-respecting traveler. He requested an audience with the lord himself, and stayed with him in his mansion for a day before moving on. And a week later, Sir Ricbert was dead."

"Strange," Lancelot muttered, and Arthur nodded slowly, sparing a moment to take a sip from his mug. He appeared to be in deep thought, his brow furrowing as he turned the new bits of information over in his head; Gwaine guessed that their first stop the next day would most likely be the dead vassal's mansion.

"We're scared, the villagers and I," the innkeeper said, softly now, and when Gwaine looked at him again, his eyes were pleading. "We've heard rumors of patrols from Mercia being sent to conquest our land. Did you know Sir Ricbert used to be a vassal of Camelot?" He spread his hands, a helpless gesture, and his gaze traveled between them as though hoping for understanding and clemency. "The taxes weren't too high, we lived peacefully alongside our lord, and no knights or mercenaries ever bothered us."

"I'm sure the Mercian patrols will be intercepted," Arthur said firmly, and Gwaine knew that he was already planning to send a messenger back to the castle with a letter to his father telling him to do just that. Well, _advising_ , more like. "From what I've heard, Camelot does not abandon its allies. Your village will not suffer for its loyalty."

Gwaine didn't even know why Arthur still bothered to pretend that he _wasn't_ the crown prince of exactly the kingdom they were talking about; he had straightened up in his seat and was fixing the innkeeper with a steady, calm gaze that carried the weight of an oath. The room seemed quieter than before, the twilight creating a play of shadows across Arthur's face, and for a moment he looked older, and if Gwaine narrowed his eyes just so, the flicker of candlelight in Arthur's hair looked as golden as any crown.

He couldn't help but think that the innkeeper had picked up on it too, because he swallowed hard and nodded after a long moment, accepting Arthur's words as the promise they were. He didn't ask how Arthur knew that Camelot's rulers even cared about the fate of a tiny village on the northern coast. But a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, and he stood up straighter as he picked up the rag again, like Arthur's words had been enough to soothe his worries.

The moment passed when Arthur turned back to them, but although he suddenly seemed as tired as they all were, Gwaine didn't miss the determination in his gaze that hadn't been there before, the conviction that he would do everything in his power to ensure that these people would indeed not suffer for their loyalty. He quickly hid his expression by taking another gulp of cider from his pint—he didn't want Arthur to think that Gwaine was _admiring_ him or something nonsensical like that.

Merlin, on the other hand, made no effort to conceal the quiet pride in his smile, or the softness in his eyes as he didn't drop his gaze even when Arthur's eyes came to rest on him. Gwaine considered kicking him under the table, but after a moment Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking away and down into his mug as though it held all the answers to his questions.

Thus rebuked, Merlin sighed a little but didn't look too crestfallen—even Gwaine didn't know how much of the scowl on Arthur's face came from whatever dragged-out argument he and Merlin were having, and how much was born of the natural discomfort of being complimented. Gwaine drained the last of his cider, relishing in the tingle of alcohol down his throat, and rolled his eyes—if Arthur was going to be this bloody noble for the rest of their quest, he was in for more looks like the one Merlin had just given him.

But well, he thought as he set the mug back down with a grin, watching Arthur get used to that would be quite entertaining indeed.

 

 

Judging from the slow, quiet breaths from the other side of the room, Arthur was already half asleep by the time Merlin finally dared to speak.

"That was a nice thing you did back there, reassuring the innkeeper," he said, careful to pitch his tone low so that Arthur could pretend not to have heard.

Arthur was silent for a long moment, jolted out of that undefinable place between sleep and waking by Merlin's words. Then he sighed, sounding distinctly indignant, as though he had just managed to forget that he was forced to spend the night in a room with him. Merlin heard the bed creak when Arthur moved—he could barely make out the bed on the other side of the room, but he thought that it looked like Arthur had turned towards the wall, obviously not intent on discussing this further. He didn't reply, not even to tell Merlin to shut up and stop talking about things he didn't understand.

Merlin sighed, and pulled his own blanket more tightly around himself. The room was small but just as tidy as the inn's ground floor, and Merlin had dropped his and Arthur's luggage on the floor as soon as he'd seen the two beds. Lancelot had given him a knowing look, but hadn't commented on it; he was the only one except for Gaius whom Merlin had told about their fallout, and not entirely of his own free will, at that.

Sure, Lancelot had asked more than once what had gone wrong between them, and Merlin had felt guilty every time he'd seen the worry in his friend's face. But he hadn't felt ready to tell him, until Lancelot had taken the uncharacteristically desperate measure of inviting him for a few drinks at the Rising Sun. Merlin had told him everything after barely two cups of wine, his tongue loosened by the alcohol and probably by loneliness as well.

He'd had a hangover the next day, and what with how contrite Lancelot had looked, Merlin had forgiven him for getting him drunk on purpose. To his own surprise, he'd felt a little better, especially when Lancelot told him with an apologetic grimace that plying him with wine to coax him into talking had been Gwaine's idea. In hindsight, he'd been almost grateful for it, because the thought of Lancelot desperate enough to go to _Gwaine_ for advice made him feel guilty all over again.

Merlin turned away towards the wall as well, unwilling to put himself through the sight of Arthur's back any longer. In a way, his drunk conversation with Lancelot reminded him of the evening when he'd told Arthur about his magic—he hadn't really felt ready then either, but he'd done it anyway.

He'd spent nearly five minutes standing in the corridor just outside Arthur's chambers, and in hindsight he was glad that no guard had been in sight, because Merlin had kept raising his hand to knock, only to lower it time and time again. Images had flashed through his mind, of the executioner's black hood and a burning pyre and of Arthur's eyes gone cold and hard as stone, but he'd done his best to shove those images away. He'd focused his thoughts on the round table of the Kings of Old, and on how he truly wanted to _earn_ his place to Arthur's right, instead of just being shoved there by destiny. And so he'd knocked, tentatively, because he knew Arthur had had a rough day between testing a few hopeful candidates for knighthood and convincing his father that no, King Bayard's latest letter did not hold hidden threats but was merely an assessment of the situation in Cenred's fallen kingdom.

There was barely a second's pause before Arthur called him inside, though, and the prince hadn't looked all that tired when Merlin slipped into the room and closed the door behind himself. He was seated at his table, various scrolls and parchments spread out in front of him—it had taken Merlin a moment to adjust, since he'd expected Arthur to be pacing his room in exhausted agitation, like he had done so often since Morgana's betrayal.

"I'm proud of you, Merlin," Arthur had said, his mocking tone undermined by the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Flames were crackling in the fireplace, illuminating Arthur from behind, so that it looked like he was still wearing his coronet. "You've finally figured out how to knock."

Merlin had done his best to smile back, feeling relieved and oddly unsettled by the unspoken welcome in Arthur's gaze. He was surprised at the break in Arthur's routine of running himself ragged and trying to subtly keep the kingdom together without his father noticing, but he'd still sent a quick, silent thank you to whatever had led to this momentary reprieve. His head felt empty of thought, as if the surprising warmth in Arthur's eyes was enough to send all his fears and worries scurrying out of sight into the farthest corners of his mind.

"Better late than never," Merlin had replied, speaking slowly as he chose his words with careful precision, probably for one of the first times in Arthur's presence. But if he was going to shatter the quietude that had settled over Arthur's mind, he was going to do it as gently as possible.

Wiping his cold, sweaty hands on his trousers, Merlin had taken a deep breath, although the air stung and burned in his throat like he was already breathing in the smoke of a pyre. "And I hope that's what you'll think about this, too," he continued after a moment, trying and failing to keep his voice even. His words seemed too fast for his mind to second-guess, tumbling out of his mouth in a quickening slide. "Maybe you won't right now, and that's fine, really—you have a right to be angry, but _please_ —"

He faltered and broke off, silenced by the confused look that flitted across Arthur's features—there was concern there as well, unguarded and open as Arthur leaned forward in his chair. "Merlin, calm down," he said, his tone pitched low and soothing as though he were trying to calm a particularly skittish horse. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Merlin replied helplessly, and wiped his hands again—his fingers were numb with cold by now, despite the warmth he could feel radiating from the fireplace. Arthur subsided back into silence, although Merlin could still see the softness of concern in his eyes, and he felt suddenly, perilously close to tears. Arthur looked like he might get up any second, maybe to put a reassuring hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin prayed desperately that he wouldn't, because he knew he'd flee then. He could do this as long as Arthur remained seated, but if he were to stand up and face him eye to eye, Merlin knew he would break.

A few more deep breaths, and the lump in his throat eased enough for Merlin to swallow it for now. He felt the tremor again, the twitchy shakiness that had started up in his muscles as soon as he'd stopped in front of Arthur's door, and he fought not to let it show as he said, "I have to tell you something." He paused for a moment, more words hovering uncertainly on his tongue, but then he added, "Something that I should have told you long ago. But— I'm telling you _now_ , and I'm sorry."

"Alright," Arthur said, leaning back again as if to observe the situation from a different angle. He still looked worried, although the barest edge of wariness had entered his gaze—it wasn't angry or even particularly sharp, not yet, but Merlin cringed nevertheless.

He sucked in another deep breath, and for a moment he almost felt grateful, in a slightly mad, helpless kind of way that had nothing to do with relief—it was not unlike the feeling that sometimes overcame him when they were in danger. As soon as they broke cover, shouting for their enemies to show themselves and fight, there were no more decisions to be made—it just _happened_.

Arthur was no group of bandits he had to face down, though; but while his mind had been utterly blank just a second ago, the words came to him with surprising ease now. The frantic pounding of his heart nearly drowned out the words to his own ears, but his voice remained steady when he said, quietly, "Arthur, I'm a sorcerer."

He had expected the moment of blank incomprehension as well as the disbelief that followed suit in Arthur's expression, and to his own astonishment, the sight didn't make him want to run. The crackle of the fire was the only sound disturbing the silence for a long moment, but when Arthur opened his mouth to speak, disbelief still written plainly across his features, Merlin knew he was going to ask him if he'd been sneaking some wine or if he'd hit his head somewhere.

Levitation spells had always been his forte, and so Merlin didn't need to speak when he focused his attention on the quill lying abandoned on the table. He fought the instinct to lower his gaze, struggling to keep his head held high and let Arthur see the flash of gold in his eyes, and the quill moved, lifted off the table with a whisper of sound as the pristine white goose feather scraped across wood.

Arthur's gaze followed the quill until it was hovering at eye level, and his hands moved slowly to grip the armrests of his chair as though preparing to push it back. It was an instinct-governed motion, triggered by the ingrained response to magic that Arthur probably couldn't have suppressed even if he'd tried. Heart thrashing in his throat, Merlin watched as Arthur's gaze slowly shifted from the quill to him, and Merlin smiled then, tremulously, not because he felt particularly relieved or even _safe_ , but because he wanted Arthur to know that it was alright, that he wasn't here to _do_ anything to him—that he had just come to finally tell him.

He could see now that Arthur had gone pale too, his eyes looking wide and very, very blue beneath his fringe—the disbelief was still there, but it just seemed to stick out of stubbornness, and shock was slowly seeping through at the edges. Arthur stared at Merlin like he'd never seen him before, like he was reconsidering everything he knew Merlin to be, turning over every facet of his personality in the new, harsh light of what he had been told. Merlin stared back helplessly, a slow, sinking feeling spreading through his stomach as he fought to keep his breathing even.

The hot, jagged lump was back in his throat, but this time he couldn't swallow it back down. He had braced himself for the hush and the utter speechless shock, but not for the uncomprehending hurt that he saw in Arthur's eyes, and it went through him like a knife. Merlin had wanted to give Arthur the chance to react, to demand an explanation or to just shout at him as he saw fit, but now he found himself squirming under the weight of the terrible silence that had spread through the room like poison.

"I'm sorry," Merlin whispered, the words little more than a faint outrush of breath, but he couldn't raise his voice. "Arthur, I'm so, so sorry— I wanted to tell you so many times, but—"

He broke off, realizing that fear was not an excuse that the prince would listen to right now, not when the slow darkness of anger began to swirl through Arthur's eyes, chasing away the shock. Although he didn't reach for the dagger that lay on the windowsill next to him, Merlin saw his hand twitch as though he wanted to, and the sight shot pain through his stomach as though Arthur had stabbed him for real.

"Please," Merlin said, but it shattered against the tightness in his throat, coming out as a hoarse, broken sound. He could feel the tears he had fought so hard to hold back burning in his eyes now, and Arthur still hadn't spoken, hadn't _asked_ anything. All the same, the words kept spilling out in a desperate rush, because Arthur's eyes had gone so dark that they looked almost black in the candlelight, and he felt like it was his last chance to explain anything. "It's not— I'm not _different_ now, I'm still the same, it doesn't have to change anything—"

"Get out," Arthur said. It was just two single words, not much louder than Merlin's whisper from before, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. "Get out of this room right now, and don't you _dare_ come back."

Merlin had left. And he had cried, his forehead pressed to the rough, soothing coldness of the wall just outside Arthur's chambers—not for himself, but for the look in Arthur's eyes, the baffled dismay of someone trying to make sense of a blow he hadn't seen coming. He knew that even after the busy day he'd had, Arthur was in for a sleepless night now, his earlier comfortable tiredness chased away by Merlin's confession. He would lie awake contemplating the depths of Merlin's betrayal, he would wonder why his servant, his _friend_ would do that to him, and somehow, that had seemed even worse than the possibility of guards breaking down Merlin's door the next morning.

The bed on the other side of the room creaked again, and Merlin flinched, shaken out of his thoughts. He released a slow breath and the tightness in his throat eased a little—no matter how much time had passed since that day, the memory never failed to make him feel like someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart relentlessly. True, Arthur had looked like he barely got any sleep anymore for the next two weeks, but despite the glares of barely banked fury that Arthur had sideswiped him with, no guards had come to take Merlin away, and for that, he was still grateful.

And then Arthur had broken the silence between them—with a meaningless order, to be sure, but it had been enough to kindle the tiny spark of hope into a persistent flame in Merlin's chest. He'd pushed away the guilt and the hollow despair that welled up in him whenever he let his thoughts wander off towards how close they had been before. He'd focused all his attention on the small scraps of Arthur's life that he was still allowed to take part in, and he'd tried his best to silently convey his willingness to take whatever Arthur threw at him in his betrayed anger, and to explain if Arthur chose to hear him out.

He'd locked away the heavy sadness that clung to him like a persistent leech, determined to sit out his punishment and endure whatever time of trial Arthur thought he deserved, but this quest, this break in their routine was stirring it all up again. Unlike in the castle, Arthur couldn't avoid him here, and since the past week had gone by in relative peace, Merlin felt brave enough to force Arthur into close quarters with him whenever he could.

Arthur's breathing had shifted into the slow, regular pattern of sleep, and judging from the lack of quiet snoring, he was still lying on his side and had yet to turn over onto his back like he normally did. The thought made Merlin smile a little, though wistfully, and he closed his eyes against the blueish shimmer of moonlight from the small window.

He just had to find a way to get Arthur to talk, to blow off some of the fury that had built up during the past few weeks, and then he could show him, slowly but steadily, that not all magic was bad. That Merlin had been born with it, and that he'd never, ever use it against him in any way, and that he had told him because he wanted Arthur to _know_ him, to look upon him and deem him worthy of the place by his side.

He could talk, once he'd let Arthur shout at him for as long as he liked, and maybe, just maybe, Arthur would listen.

 

"Well," Leon's voice said from behind them, when the silence had long since become uncomfortable. "That's..."

He sounded just as flabbergasted as Merlin felt, and he didn't blame Leon when he broke off after searching for words for a moment. Lancelot just shook his head and raked a hand through his hair as though he had been faced with something that would take him weeks to understand. Arthur stood with his hands on his hips and was looking up at the wall in front of them, fixing his gaze on a glint of glass that might have been a window near the top. He didn't seem to notice the innkeeper's anxious eyes on him—Merlin could see the man's hands clench and unclench at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to fidget nervously.

Last night had been a comfortable reprieve from sleeping on bedrolls, and the lavish breakfast that the innkeeper had presented them with in the morning had restored the rest of their spirits. Something about their conversation on the evening before must have earned Arthur the innkeeper's trust, because it only took a few careful inquiries until he offered to take them to Sir Ricbert's mansion. The man's gratitude had been almost palpable when he'd led them out into the crisp spring morning, like being able to show a few travelers what had upset the entire village of Treffynnon so much was a relief in itself.

The sea had been an ever-present roar in their ears as they'd advanced through narrow roads; Arthur's assessing gaze had traveled across the clusters of houses, and Merlin had seen him nod to himself a few times. The village looked much like the inn—plain but well-kept, and Merlin had almost been able to see the gears turn in Arthur's head as he concluded that the villagers must be marvelous farmers indeed, if they managed to sustain themselves with what they grew on their hilly fields. He'd known then that Arthur would do everything in his power to ensure that whatever business had frightened the people so much would be cleared up, but he'd kept the thought to himself, ducking his head to hide the smile that had made Arthur so uncomfortable the evening before.

Peasants had come out of their houses to watch them pass through their village—sure, they'd formed clusters on doorsteps under the pretense of just stopping by their neighbors' for a chat, but the curious, slightly wary gazes that followed their group told another story. Arthur had rearranged his features into the mask of inquisitive politeness that Merlin often saw him wear in council meetings. Leon and Lancelot had drawn a little closer, careful to keep their expressions blank of wariness. Gwaine was the only one who didn't seem bothered by the palpable tension that had marked their trek up the cliffs to the dead vassal's mansion. He'd just smiled jovially at the villagers, nodded at whoever held his gaze for too long, and generally seemed to quite enjoy the morning's stroll to the seaside.

In fact, he was still smiling, although the salty breeze whipped his hair around his face and partly obscured his expression. He looked thrilled rather than as baffled as Merlin felt, and his grin widened when Merlin met his eyes.

"Amazing, isn't it?" he said quietly, for Merlin's ears alone as he gestured at the mansion in front of them. "I've never seen so much ivy in one place."

"Can't argue with that," Merlin muttered, his gaze helplessly drawn to the house again as well. Its silhouette had looked strangely bulky from afar, but Merlin had just blamed it on the morning sun, which was only just beginning to climb up above the roof and had highlighted the house from behind as they'd walked up the narrow path to the cliffs.

The mansion was covered in ivy. Merlin guessed that it wasn't actually that large, just an unusually spacious house built on an outcropping of rock at the seaside—but the ivy made it look bigger and imposing, like the entire building had been wrapped in a dark green blanket. The leaves rustled softly in the morning breeze, and Merlin felt himself shiver, unable to shake off the feeling of something tall and invisible and inexplicably _magical_ hovering in front of him. The ivy was _everywhere_ , hiding the masonry from view as though the house itself were made of green leaves. The only places that the twines didn't reach were the windows, little islands of glass amidst a sea of green, reflecting the still-soft light of the sun.

"And this just... grew?" Arthur asked after a long silence, his voice incredulous, although he'd probably guessed at the answer already. Merlin was sure that everyone knew what he was referring to, but Arthur still waved a hand at the house, the gesture looking a bit lost. His gaze had traveled downwards and was now fixed on the innkeeper, but Merlin noticed that he didn't turn around to face the man properly. He didn't seem to want to turn his back on the house, Leon and Lancelot both had their hands resting on their still-sheathed daggers, and only Gwaine seemed pleasantly impressed rather than wary at the sight before them. Whatever strange power was responsible for this, the others appeared to feel it too.

"I know it sounds impossible, sir, but it did," the innkeeper said. He sounded rather apologetic, like he feared that Arthur would take back his promise of Camelot's support, now that he'd seen the situation for himself. "Sir Ricbert died, and the next day his family were gone and the house looked like this."

Arthur just shook his head slightly, probably to rearrange his thoughts, and took a deep breath as at least a few of the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place. "You said something about a traveler yesterday?"

The innkeeper nodded, obviously relieved that Arthur wasn't turning and walking away, but continued to try and get at the heart of the matter. "Mighty strange chap," he replied. "I almost didn't believe my eyes when I saw him. He was clad all in green."

Arthur's fingers froze in the act of running through his hair, and he slowly dropped his hand, abruptly turning to the man so that his back faced the mansion. Merlin tensed, his gaze zeroing in on the gently swaying leaves behind Arthur—but nothing happened, and then his mind fully caught up with the innkeeper's words.

"Green?" Arthur repeated slowly, and an image flashed in front of Merlin's mind's eye—the feasting hall filled with courtiers, knights, and servants, and the strange visitor who had disrupted the evening's lifted mood.

He still remembered the permeating feel of magic billowing off of him in waves when he'd introduced himself as the Green Knight, the chasm of time that had seemed to stretch endlessly behind the calm veneer of his eyes. Merlin hadn't forgotten the man's challenge, but he'd discarded it into a dusty corner of his memory since Uther had turned him away. He still remembered how Gaius had pored over an old book of fairytales and songs for days afterward, but he'd never talked to Merlin about whatever he was looking for, and Merlin hadn't asked.

"His boots, his trousers, his tunic and vest—everything was green," the innkeeper confirmed, oblivious to the tense look that Merlin exchanged with Leon when their gazes met behind the man's back. Lancelot kept his eyes on the house, his brow furrowed in wariness and dawning realization. Next to Merlin, Gwaine sucked in a slow breath through his teeth as though he had just remembered the Green Knight as well, and Merlin suddenly recalled that Gwaine had talked to him, had drunk with him at the knights' table before he had voiced his challenge.

"Was he armed?" Leon asked into the silence. Merlin frowned, trying to dredge up more memories—there'd been an axe, hanging from the man's belt and covered in twines of ivy much like the ones they were looking at right now. But as far as Merlin remembered, the blade had been dull and rusty, covered in moss, and only when the Green Knight had drawn the axe later did it shine as though freshly polished.

"I don't know, sir," the innkeeper said, sounding a bit mystified by the question. "I only saw him from the window as he was walking up to the manor." He motioned helplessly towards the ivy, as though to say that it certainly hadn't looked like this then. "We found Sir Ricbert in the woods a week later, not five furlongs from the village. He looked like he'd set out to travel a long way—he was dressed in hunting gear and had a bedroll with him."

Arthur frowned at that, and Merlin saw him open his mouth like he was going to ask something, but the innkeeper didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the house in front of them, and he took a deep breath, obviously fighting off an image only he could see. "He'd been beheaded."

Even Gwaine flinched slightly at that, startled out of his contemplation of the gently rustling leaves. Leon and Lancelot exchanged a wary glance, and Merlin noticed that Leon's hand was inching closer to his dagger again as if on instinct—Merlin didn't blame him. As early as it was, the sun was already warm on their backs, casting a golden, rosy shimmer over the sprawling cliffs and the sea beneath, but he still felt chilled.

It was out of the question that magic was at work here in some way—the silent thrum of energy that permeated the air around the house told him as much—but it was unlike anything he'd ever encountered before. The Green Knight himself hadn't seemed like a sorcerer to him even when he'd disrupted their feast at Camelot, and this just confirmed it. Decapitation seemed like a fairly non-magical way to get rid of an opponent, even if the twines of ivy had grown at a preternatural speed and had scared the whole village.

"Our local physician took a look at the body before we buried him," the innkeeper said, looking back and forth between them as though to gauge their reaction. He seemed anxious again, but Merlin knew that Arthur wasn't going to abandon his plans of helping the villagers, no matter how many more strange facets the man was going to add to this puzzle. "And there wasn't a scratch on him, other than his severed head. It was the strangest thing," he added, thoughtfully now. "Our physician was mystified. He said it looked like Sir Ricbert hadn't fought back. There weren't any other wounds, just that single stroke from a heavy, probably two-handed weapon, like a broadsword or perhaps an axe."

An axe. Merlin released a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, taking a second to glance over at Gwaine, who was looking at the house again with an air of vague astonishment, rather than the odd, sinking feeling that was spreading through Merlin's veins. The Green Knight had been wearing an axe, rusty though it had appeared to be at first, and it was too much of a coincidence to be explained away.

Merlin wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his trousers and inhaled deeply, wondering why he felt so dismayed at the possibility of the strange visitor being their adversary in this. It wasn't like he'd even _talked_ to the man at the feast—but somehow, his mind just refused to wrap itself around the idea of the Green Knight being evil. Which was kind of not making sense at all, considering the fact that he seemed to have murdered Sir Ricbert and scared the hell out of an entire village, but then again, Merlin's mind had a history of not making much sense.

Arthur was talking to the innkeeper, he realized dimly—words of reassurance that Merlin had heard often enough to recognize them even without listening closely. His voice was pitched low, and he took care to meet the other man's eyes, letting him feel that Arthur had listened closely to everything he'd said and would try to figure out the best course of action. Not for the first time, Merlin wondered if Arthur knew how he looked when he did that, when he made an effort not to talk down at frightened peasants but to reassure them, to rekindle the lost spark of faith in their liege. The innkeeper didn't even know who Arthur was, but he was looking at him with slow-dawning, barely concealed hope, the invisible weight of wariness lifting from his shoulders with every word. They had met barely a day ago, but the man was already seeing the king Arthur would be one day, not only in the hearts of his people but also in name.

"We won't keep you any longer," Arthur said, clapping him on the shoulder with an air of finality. "We'll take a look around, but feel free to go back to brewing that fantastic cider you graced us with last night—wouldn't want to keep you from that."

The innkeeper laughed, surprised, and Merlin saw him straighten up when Arthur's hand lifted from his shoulder. The apprehension wasn't gone, but it seemed pushed back behind the new determination in his eyes—Arthur's words had broken the fear's clutching grip, instilling in him the kind of assurance that Merlin knew so well from the battlefield. Nevertheless, he seemed glad of the chance to get out of the mansion's looming presence, and made his way back down the cliffs to the village after promising to prepare field rations for them.

Merlin blinked at that, but none of the others seemed surprised; apparently it had been decided beforehand that they wouldn't stay another night at the inn. Which made sense, in a way, since they had a lot of ground to cover until they'd checked all the dead nobles' lodgings—there was no time to lose, given the fact that they might also need to hunt down the Green Knight if he did indeed turn out to be the one responsible.

Shaking his head slightly, he roused himself from his thoughts, and listened as Arthur told them that they would split up and take a closer look at the house. He followed on instinct when Arthur and Lancelot started to walk around the side of the mansion, following a trail that had been worn into the sandy ground by many feet before. The grass in the front yard had obviously not seen a scythe in several weeks, and Merlin felt the chilly wetness of morning dew slowly seep through his trousers as he followed the knights into the house's shadow. On the other side, Leon was trying to keep up with Gwaine, who approached the ivy at a brisk pace and didn't seem at all afraid or even wary; Merlin even saw him lean close to a window to peer into the abandoned room behind.

Then he rounded the corner after Lancelot, and the mansion's bulky frame blocked Gwaine and Leon from view. Merlin took a deep breath, shivering in the sudden chill—the morning sun had warmed his back before, and now it seemed doubly cool in the shadow cast by the house. Lancelot was advancing slowly through the high grass, keeping away from the ivy with his hand resting near the dagger on his belt. Merlin caught his eye for a moment and felt reassured by the wariness he found there—at least he wasn't the only one who was mildly apprehensive about this. Then he looked past Lancelot to Arthur and caught the tail end of a glare that must have been leveled at him for some time—belatedly, Merlin realized that Arthur probably hadn't wanted him to come along as they rounded the mansion and tried to make sense of all the ivy.

But now he was already there with them, so he figured he might as well prove that he _could_ be useful in this, no matter what Arthur thought. Another deep breath later, Merlin took another step through the moist grass, but this time he ventured closer to the ivy-covered wall.

The masonry was blocking the breeze from the sea, but the leaves in front of him still stirred and rustled as though moved by a gentle wind. Up close, the thrum of magic was even stronger, an impossibly alluring, muted hum that reverberated through Merlin's bones like the sound of a bell. Even the air seemed different, tasting of the sweet-sharp, wild energy that Merlin had seen in the Green Knight at the feast. He had worn it like a cloak, and now whatever he had done to Sir Ricbert had spread it across this house, coated the very ground he was standing on and permeated the air in his lungs.

He had brought up a hand before he could second-guess himself; somebody hissed his name from behind him, he wasn't sure if it was Arthur or Lancelot, but then his fingers brushed against a dark leaf and it didn't matter anymore who had tried to hold him back. An invisible current swept through him and he stumbled, bracing his hand on the wall hidden behind green twines—dizziness swirled through his head, and he briefly closed his eyes against the answering surge of energy that crested up in his chest. It felt like whatever magic had wreathed the ivy was calling to him, beckoning him, although where, he did not know.

The leaf was smooth and cool under Merlin's fingers, and it would have looked like any other leaf of ivy if it hadn't been for the faint, almost invisible light it gave off; Merlin wouldn't have noticed it in the bright sunlight, but now, in the shadow behind the house, he could see that the ivy was glowing. It seemed to soak up what little light reached the wall, and the leaf beneath his hand was cool, but not as cool as it should have been after having spent the entire night in darkness. There was no dew on it either, just little bright green veins that curled through the glossy surface and almost seemed to move under his touch for a second, a slight twitch not unlike a friendly hello.

"This is—," Merlin started, and coughed when his voice came out hoarse. He still felt unhinged, strangely imbalanced just because he was touching the silky-soft texture of the dark green leaf beneath his fingers, and he lowered his hand with some difficulty. "All this ivy didn't grow naturally. It's magic. I can feel it."

There was a short, somewhat baffled silence, only broken by the incessant rustling of the leaves on the wall—Merlin thought, somewhat hazily, that it sounded like a swarm of birds fluffing their feathers in preparation for a long flight. Lancelot quickly glanced back and forth between him and Arthur before averting his gaze with a distinct air of slight embarrassment, like he'd just caught himself listening in on a private conversation.

Then the rest of Merlin's mind, the part that was not still half dazed, caught up with him, with what he had just said, and he felt his hands grow cold and clammy in a way that had nothing to do with the morning chill. It was tempting to just keep his eyes on Lancelot, who seemed to find his boots intensely riveting, but his gaze drifted on its own accord until it landed on Arthur.

Arthur was staring at him with an expression Merlin didn't think he'd ever quite seen—shock, disbelief, even anger, but although he seemed on the brink of shouting at him, no sound came out when he opened his mouth. He looked at Lancelot, sidelong, tension wrought into his very stance like his body was unconsciously bracing for a fight. Merlin could tell that Lancelot felt the weight of Arthur's eyes on him, since a slow flush crept up his neck, but he didn't look up, and Arthur's gaze snapped back to Merlin. He shook his head, just slightly, like he still couldn't believe Merlin's audacity, but his shoulders drooped a little before he abruptly turned and walked away.

Merlin looked after him in silence, suddenly feeling heavy and tired. Arthur was striding along the side of the house at a brisk pace, his back resolutely turned to them, but Merlin knew he hadn't imagined the flicker of stunned revulsion in Arthur's eyes just before he'd turned away.

He inhaled deeply although it felt like his lungs had shrunk to half their size, but he had no idea what to say anyway, and so he didn't fight it when his breath left him again in a rush. Lancelot gave him a slightly pained look, and Merlin tried to tug a smile onto his face to assure his friend that it didn't matter, that he hadn't expected anything less.

Lancelot didn't seem fooled, but at least he didn't reach out to rest a comforting hand on Merlin's shoulder, although Merlin knew he wanted to. He inclined his head in acknowledgement instead, briefly looking up at the looming, ivy-covered wall with undisguised wariness, and made to follow the path that Arthur's steps had cut through the swaying grass.

After a second, Merlin followed. He could feel the first tell-tale tightening of stubborn frustration in his chest, and he fought to keep his face blank, knowing that right now, he couldn't allow it to get the better of him. Arthur wouldn't listen to him anyway, not with the furious, offended disbelief Merlin had seen in his eyes, and they were still too close to whatever strange magic had enfolded the mansion in ivy.

He swallowed the knot of frustration in his throat, lengthening his stride to keep up as Arthur rounded the corner towards the back of the house in front of them. For now, he had a prince to protect.

 

 

In retrospect, Merlin thought that the rest of the morning passed in almost the same kind of silent treatment Arthur had given him during those first two weeks.

He gritted his teeth and took it without complaint, though, determined not to cave under the strain _now_ when he'd already made it through the past few months relatively unscathed. After choking down a quick early lunch at the inn, Merlin kept himself busy by rushing back and forth between their rooms and the front yard, and declined Leon's increasingly puzzled offers of help each time he passed through the tavern. By the time the others were done eating, their baggage was tied securely to the packhorse and the other horses, and after everyone shared a short laugh at Gwaine's expense, whom Gryngolet had thrown into the dust the first time he'd tried to mount, they rode out.

They followed a trail along the coast, and judging from how he had to squint against the sunlight, Merlin guessed that they were headed south-east. Treffynnon disappeared behind them as the coastline evened out, and by the time they entered a cluster of tall pine trees, the sound of the waves had gentled into a quiet rushing noise. Merlin had heard Arthur and Leon talk about the distance they were to cover today, and he knew that they were headed inland along the delta of the river in order to cross it at the first bridge they encountered. With a bit of luck, they'd sleep in another inn tonight, and Merlin rather hoped they would—the midday sun was fairly warm, but clouds were looming on the horizon, already threatening rain.

Arthur hadn't talked to him at all since the incident at Sir Ricbert's house, not even to order him to load up the packhorse, but maybe he'd guessed that Merlin would be falling all over himself to keep busy and cover the slip-up. In fact, Merlin thought somewhat morosely as he nudged his horse forward a little, the prince hadn't so much as _looked_ at him all morning. It was like Arthur was pretending he didn't exist.

But for some reason, he kept looking at Lancelot—sharp, probing glances that bore into the knight's back whenever he didn't notice, as though Arthur were assessing a threat. It puzzled Merlin, but he knew better than to ask, especially now. And so he rode on in silence behind Leon and Gwaine as the sun climbed past its zenith and the forest thickened around them.

They stopped to rest with the sea far behind them. Although Merlin could still smell the salt in the air, he no longer heard the crashing of the waves when he dismounted and absently patted his horse's neck. A week spent mostly on horseback had done some good to drain the ache from his muscles that had settled there on the first day; by now Merlin was barely sore anymore, just a bit tired. The others had dismounted as well, and Gwaine was trying to lead Gryngolet down to the river for a drink, but the stallion ripped the reins out of Gwaine's hand with an arrogant toss of his head. He made his way down to the riverside at a brisk trot and drank deeply, and Merlin's gaze flickered back to Gwaine just in time to see him roll his eyes at his horse.

Gwaine joined Leon and Lancelot on the soft mossy ground, and the three of them started to unpack the field rations that the innkeeper had given to them, all the while refusing to accept the gold coin Arthur had been trying to press into his hand. He'd said that it was the least he could to do ensure they reached the next village, and even though he hadn't stated it outright, Merlin knew that he was still grateful, simply because someone had taken an interest in the strange occurrences at the village and had promised to investigate.

The memory made Merlin smile, at least until he straightened up from loosening his horse's cinch and his eyes came to rest on Arthur. The prince made no move to join the knights on the ground, although Merlin was sure he was hungry as well. He was looking back and forth between the three of them, with the same calculating, slightly dangerous gaze he had fixed Lancelot with all day. Then he suddenly looked at Merlin, his eyes dark and unreadable, and gestured towards the trees with a sharp motion of his hand.

"Merlin, a word," Arthur said, his clipped tone brooking no argument, and retreated into the forest.

Thoroughly baffled, Merlin just blinked at Arthur's back for a moment before he hurried to follow, tripping over a few fallen branches in his haste. Lancelot had stopped chewing on his piece of cheese and was glancing warily at the treeline; Leon looked like he was busy refining his newest method of pretending he hadn't heard anything; and Gwaine was grinning openly at Merlin, waggling his eyebrows for some reason.

Little twigs whipped into his face and got caught in his clothes when he followed Arthur into the quietude of the forest. His steps were almost muted by the soft carpet of moss and dried leaves that spread out beneath the trees—he jogged to catch up with Arthur, his heart pounding out an uneasy rhythm in his chest. He had no idea what Arthur wanted; at first he'd thought that the prince would simply tell him that he never wanted to hear Merlin mention his magic as casually as that ever again, but now, looking at the rigid set of Arthur's shoulders in front of him, he wasn't so sure anymore.

He fought to keep his face blank when Arthur finally turned around to look at him, eyes hard and so dark that they looked almost gray in the shady forest, and mentally braced himself for whatever hurtful words would get hurled at him now. What he hadn't expected, though, was for Arthur to lunge at him as soon as he got within arm's reach.

Before Merlin could react, he was grabbed by the front of his tunic, whirled around, and slammed up against a tree. He gasped when his back collided with the rough bark, but the impact didn't really hurt—it just drove the air from his lungs, and it took him a moment to regain his breath, blinking dizzily. Up close, Arthur's eyes didn't look gray anymore, but very blue, and also very, very angry. A muscle was twitching in his jaw, and Merlin felt his breath on his cheeks, hot, sharp puffs of air that came as quickly as if Arthur had run all the way here.

"Are—you— _mad?_ " Arthur hissed, pushing the words out through his teeth as though he would have yelled them if they'd been out of earshot of the knights. He shook Merlin, the knuckles of his fists digging painfully into Merlin's collarbones, and Merlin fought to keep his balance, his boots sliding unsteadily across the gnarled roots of the tree Arthur was pushing him up against.

"What—," he tried, but didn't get any further as Arthur shoved him back, still not letting go of his tunic. Merlin's head was knocked into rough bark, but he made no move to free himself of Arthur's grip—he hadn't even thought to bring up his hands in self-defense when Arthur had grabbed for him.

"What were you _thinking_ , just announcing your— your _magic_ to all and sundry like that!" Arthur snarled, his voice rising to a half shout that echoed slightly amidst the trees. "Lancelot was _right there!_ "

He could feel Arthur's warmth, a smothering wave of heat even through his clothes, but even the twin pressure points of Arthur's knuckles near his throat dropped away in a momentary haze of shock as the puzzle pieces in Merlin's head suddenly clicked into place.

 _That_ was why Arthur had kept staring at Lancelot all day, he realized, with a surge of relief that was almost exhilarating—he'd thought Lancelot would turn Merlin in, or worse yet, breach the subject with Arthur on a quiet night in an inn. It all made sense now, and he couldn't have stopped the hope that soared in his chest even if he had tried—maybe the flicker of emotion back then hadn't been disgust after all, Merlin thought, maybe he just hadn't looked closely enough, although there was no mistaking the barely banked fury that was swirling through Arthur's eyes now.

Merlin exhaled shakily, his heartbeat loud and out of sync in his ears. His mind was utterly blank of coherence, his thoughts fleeting pinpricks of light that he fought in vain to catch, and so he didn't second-guess his words as he blurted out, "Lancelot knows."

Arthur stopped, just _stopped_ , and didn't move or breathe or even blink for a long moment. "What?" he asked, his voice quiet and dangerously soft—Merlin could hear the shock hovering just out of reach in his tone, and of course awareness rushed back in _now_ , and it was all Merlin could do not to bite down on his tongue in reproach for its carelessness.

"He's known for—," Merlin waved a helpless hand, although Arthur wasn't even looking at the gesture. "For a long time," he finished, breathlessly, his chest slowly caving in in a way that had nothing to do with how tightly Arthur was still gripping his tunic in both hands. He could see the shutters closing behind Arthur's eyes, and Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat with some difficulty, desperate not to let Arthur slip away again.

"Remember the gryphon?" Merlin asked, the question tumbling out just as unsteadily as his earlier confession. He didn't really think about what he was saying—he just wanted to keep Arthur here in this moment with him, close enough that they were breathing each other's air, now that he had managed to inch behind the prince's defenses without even realizing it. "Lancelot killed it, but I had to enchant his spear—gryphons are magical creatures, they can't be killed with ordinary weapons, and I had to help and he saw, but he promised not to tell..."

He trailed off. Arthur was staring at him, and while his face had been blank with shock before, his features were now hardening into the indifferent mask Merlin knew so well. The closed-off expression of tightly-reined emotions was so familiar that Merlin's breath caught in his chest, and he almost stumbled forward when he felt Arthur's grip loosen from his tunic, but something in the prince's eyes stopped him short.

Arthur let him go and stepped back, and Merlin watched helplessly as he swallowed down whatever else might have been hovering on his tongue, something indecipherable flickering through his eyes before he turned away.

Merlin slumped back against the tree, his breathing ragged and fast with the knotted ball of tension that had curled into his chest. He'd seen the way Arthur's hands had curled into fists as soon as he'd let him go, and if Merlin hadn't been so baffled by Arthur's reaction, he would have tried harder to hold him back. Sometimes, he wanted more than anything to break down the iron grip Arthur had on his control and find out what was simmering beneath, because for the first time it occurred to him there might be more lying in store for him than just anger.

He waited for a while before he went back to the others, if only to allow his heartbeat some much-needed time to slow down. Then he followed Arthur's visible trail of broken twigs and stamped-down moss back to the riverside, and when Arthur once again refused to meet his eyes at all, Merlin was glad that he'd taken the time to compose himself.

But the thing that stayed with Merlin all evening, even more than the furious disbelief in Arthur's eyes, was the warmth of his hands where they'd been fisted into his shirt. It sounded stupid even to himself, but it gave him hope, to the point that he had to fight a smile whenever he felt the residual slight sting from the twin sore spots that Arthur's knuckles had left. His collarbones would probably bruise, but Merlin didn't mind. In a way, he almost wished for blueish marks to appear on his skin as a palpable testament to the fact that Arthur had _touched_ him, for the first time in months. Even without stripping off his tunic to look, he could imagine the way his collarbones must be reddening, his heartbeat going faster under the soreness that slowly filled with blood beneath his skin. The thought was reassuring, that his body would remember the touch, harsh as it had been, that it would be cradled close for a time even if it took days or weeks until Arthur touched him again.

Still, he also couldn't forget the look on Arthur's face, the utter shock when Merlin had told him that Lancelot knew about his magic—he'd seemed almost _too_ shocked for it to have been entirely genuine, like he'd wanted to mask a flicker of some other nameless emotion. For some reason, it was the same look Merlin had seen him cast towards Lancelot and Gwen more and more often during the past few months, something halfway between hopelessness and the dulled edge of remembered anger. But Merlin promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep it from slipping into the resigned disappointment that had lurked behind the calm veneer of Arthur's expression when Gwen had said goodbye to Lancelot in the courtyard a week ago.

Merlin had no idea what he _could_ do to prevent that, though, since he hadn't been brave enough to break through Arthur's defenses and get at the heart of the matter just yet. But if he hadn't known better—and he did—he'd have thought that Arthur was jealous.

 

 

If there was one thing Arthur hated, it was jealousy.

It wasn't worse than falling short of his father's expectations, and it didn't even come close to the feeling of losing a duel. All in all, Arthur mused as he carefully directed Llamrei across the crumbling stone bridge they'd been waiting for all day, he was rather surprised at how little it hurt. It was more like an incessant, slow burn beneath his skin, an itch he couldn't scratch, no matter how aggravating it became.

The worst thing about it was probably that Arthur wasn't used to it. Which was no excuse, really, but how was he supposed to have learned how to deal with feelings such as envy if he'd never found anything or anyone to be envious _of?_ As strict as Uther could be, even his father had indulged him when he'd been a child, and as soon as Arthur had expressed the slightest interest in anything, it had been as good as his. Servants and fellow noblemen alike had done their best not to leave him wanting for anything either, and it had taken a long time—and a certain loud-mouthed manservant—until Arthur had realized that most of that had been done out of obligation.

As unfamiliar as it was to him, jealousy always settled deeply and clung stubbornly, too persistent to be dislodged from his mind even by going about his daily duties, like a thorn that he couldn't pull out, no matter how viciously he dug. He didn't know how to fight it, or how to even face it, because it held the looming, unfamiliar danger of being denied what he wanted. Which made no sense at all in the light of his conversation with Merlin in the forest, since the mere thought that he might _want_ Merlin was plainly ridiculous, but not quite as ridiculous as the notion of being refused.

He knew Merlin, after all. He was loyal to a fault, and Arthur would have to have been blind and deaf not to notice the way he had stubbornly tried to work his way back into Arthur's good graces for the past few months. Rationally, he knew that it didn't have to mean anything that Lancelot had known the truth about him long before Merlin so much as thought of telling Arthur. But every time he tried to push the thought from his mind, he was met with clinging resistance and, if he was completely honest with himself, no small amount of hurt.

He knew Lancelot too, and he was well aware that the knight looked up to him far too much to ever take something from him on purpose. But given the fact that Arthur's stupid idiot of a manservant had practically shouted his sorcery across the cliffs, he couldn't let go of the foolish, nagging suspicion that Lancelot had earned a kind of loyalty from Merlin that Arthur didn't know how to inspire. He had already taken Gwen, after all, although without even meaning to. That had been inevitable in retrospect and hadn't really had anything to do with Lancelot, if Arthur was completely honest with himself. A discord had soured the air between Arthur and Gwen long before Lancelot had come back, a strange, imbalanced feeling of inevitable unhappiness lurking just around the corner, of something slipping from Arthur's grasp—something that he didn't know how to gather close enough to keep.

He didn't like the idea of not knowing how to keep Merlin, though—he didn't like it at all. As angry as Arthur still was with him, he hadn't realized until now how much he'd still depended on the unshakeable certainty of having Merlin by his side. Until Merlin had told him that Lancelot had known about his magic for so long, it had never occurred to Arthur that the place to Arthur's right might not be as unquestionably occupied as he'd thought it was.

Llamrei suddenly tossed her head with an unhappy snort, startling Arthur out of his thoughts, and he realized that he'd been gripping the reins in white-knuckled fists in much the same way as he'd held on to Merlin's tunic earlier. He loosened his hold with a soothing pat to his mare's neck before nudging her forward into the forest on the other side of the river—by now, he was certain that they'd reach the next village before nightfall.

The forest was growing dark around them, the shadows lengthening in the twilight. He could hear Lancelot and Gwaine talking quietly in the back, but their voices were too low for Arthur to make out the words. Leon had spurred his horse into a brief trot earlier in order to get between Merlin and Arthur, putting himself in an ideal position to come to Arthur's aid and simultaneously give Merlin enough time to back away from a fight. Arthur knew that Merlin wouldn't let himself be ushered into the safety of the thicket surrounding the trail if they were indeed attacked by bandits, but he still appreciated the sentiment. He'd found himself grateful for Leon's presence ever since they'd set out from Camelot—the older knight followed wherever he led, and the constant, attentive vigil he kept over them was fairly reassuring.

For some reason, despite the tumult that his thoughts had been cast into ever since he'd spoken to Merlin in the forest, Arthur couldn't forget the look on Merlin's face when he'd touched the ivy and declared it to be magical. His eyes had not flashed gold like they had on that evening in his chambers, but for just a second an unearthly shimmer seemed to cling to him, a faraway glow that cast his angular features into sharp relief. It could just have been the shadows behind the mansion, but his eyes had been fathomless and dark when he'd looked up at Arthur and Lancelot, and Arthur recalled the effort it had taken Merlin to let go of the leaf, as though the ivy had been exerting an irresistible pull.

Merlin had appeared almost ethereal, his translucent skin alight with gold, and for just a second he had seemed tall, taller than Arthur had ever seen him, unselfconscious and utterly at home in the strange power that flowed through his blood. He'd also looked impossibly far away, a trick of the light that Arthur couldn't brush off no matter how hard he tried—for an endless, oddly panicked moment, Arthur had almost thought that Merlin would disappear, that he would scatter the encasing shell of his body without second thought to become one with the sizzling thrum of golden energy in the air.

Arthur had wanted to lunge forward, to grab Merlin's arm as tightly as he could and keep him there, but the moment had gone by unused. Merlin hadn't disappeared, and he'd met Arthur's gaze after only a moment of hesitation, but the memory still bothered him. He knew that Merlin wouldn't just _leave_ , least of all because of a few currents of supernatural power weaving through the air around an ivy-covered house. But Arthur was well aware that he wouldn't know how to hold Merlin back if he ever did feel like leaving, and after their conversation in the forest, he had no idea if Merlin even wanted him to try.


	3. The Man of the Summer Day

_The second time, the blood that wets the blade of his axe still does not belong to the golden prince, and for that, he is grateful._

 _The woods just outside of Torpelei are still dark, although dawn has already begun to send its purple-golden tendrils creeping across the eastern horizon, like a tentative hand plunging into deep, dark water. In a way, he almost wishes that he had finished this more quickly, because the slowly brightening twilight sent a flicker of wild hope across his opponent's features, like he hoped that his otherworldly contestant would disappear with the dawn of the new day. The hope was crushed just a second later, and although he hadn't expected any less, he was still a little dismayed as his axe cut through muscle and bone with the swift effortlessness of a knife sliding through butter._

 _His hounds are circling the clearing, occasionally glancing at the bush where the head rolled to a stop and sniffing at the blood that's still trickling sluggishly from the stump of raw flesh where it once sat. Dew slowly soaks his trousers where he kneels in the grass, but he welcomes the cold wetness on this unfamiliar skin, like a friendly greeting from the grass that still recognizes him even in this body. He does not regret the kill—Torpelei is near the edge of the forest, and so he knew of the numerous poachers even before the witch bound him, and he also knows that his victim turned a blind eye._

 _The Man of the Summer Day lies dead in the clearing, but he never did anything to put an end to the excessive hunting in his jurisdiction, and in a way, he is glad that he was the one to put an end to the nobleman's negligence. But while he scoffed inwardly at the terror in his victim's eyes, he knows that the man would never have been strong enough to face his tests even if he'd been given a chance, and so he did his best to make it quick._

 _It is easier to negotiate with the pull of magic here, away from the roar of the sea and closer to his forest at the heart of the land. True, the witch bound him, but her magical ties are not the kind of refined enchantment it would have taken to surrender him completely to her control. Amidst the magic that encased him in mortal flesh and never stopped plucking at his consciousness ever since, he still has a bit of leeway left, and he uses it to his full advantage whenever he can. The father of the once and future king sent him away, but although the witch's power now has him roaming the lands, his tests were not part of her enchantment. He always kills with the single stroke that is part of his challenge, but he never exploits his opponents' weaknesses by putting them through trials that he knows they cannot face._

 _The blood from his axe stains the grass as he wipes the blade clean, the tiny engraved leaves shimmering in the growing light. He rises slowly, listens to the rustle of the trees' green canopy and the sounds of birds slowly waking to the new morning. A raven is circling overhead, warning him of the approach of day—the bird knows that its master cannot be here anymore when the villagers ride out to see what has become of their lord. His work is done either way, and he reattaches his axe to his belt before turning away from the body to walk away into the woods._

 _The blade's edge reflects the light for a moment longer, but as his silhouette merges with the shadows under the trees, the rust slowly creeps back in to cover the keen silver. On ancient stone walls down in the valley, in between the cracks marring otherwise perfect masonry, twines of ivy start to grow._

 

 

When the spring rains finally let up, Gwaine reluctantly but silently took back all the numerous curses he'd sent at the sky during the past few days, because if there was something even more annoying than riding through a constant drizzle, it was hunting in a forest still heavy with all the water the clouds had poured into it.

He thought, rather sourly, that this probably wasn't what overeager squires thought of when they imagined knighthood. His boots had gotten stuck in ankle-deep mud too many times to count, the deer he and Leon had pursued hadn't been bothered by the soggy ground at all, and to top it off, he was drenched to the bone although it hadn't even been raining anymore. It could as well have been, he figured, since wetness had dripped on them from leaves and branches all through their hunt, and for some reason Leon's clothes didn't look nearly as wet as his.

With a last glare at the dripping treeline, Gwaine sat down on a fallen log and stretched his chilled hands towards the fire that Arthur and Lancelot had lit. The clouds hung oppressively low in the sky, but he could tell by the relatively bright daylight that filtered into the clearing that it was early afternoon. They had covered quite some distance in the morning, with their horses going at a constant light trot to avoid them cooling down too much in the rain. With a bit of luck, they would reach their next destination before nightfall, although Gwaine thought that aside from the rain, they had been remarkably lucky so far in their journey. None of the horses had twisted their ankles on the muddy tracks Arthur had led them on, and no matter how much they collectively complained about the ever-present drizzle, nobody had so much as caught a cold yet.

A warm, dry towel was suddenly dropped in his lap, and Gwaine gave Merlin a grateful smile as he wiped his cold hands on the cloth and proceeded to dry his hair as best as he could. Merlin smiled back, putting a steaming cup of spiced wine on the log next to him before he turned back to the fire. A spit was already set up on twin stakes over the flames, just waiting for the first piece of venison to roast.

The towel seemed to dry his hair a lot faster than any other piece of fabric would have, and Gwaine glanced at it in slight confusion before he shrugged and wiped it across the patches of wetness on his leather vest. Maybe Merlin had given him one of Arthur's, and of course spoiled royalty would have towels that soaked up water like a sponge while only growing a little chilly to the touch. He felt a lot warmer by the time he put it on the log next to him, and his damp clothes seemed half dried as he leaned closer to the fire again.

He closed his hands around the cup of wine, letting the heat thaw his fingers as he watched Merlin put the spit through slices of raw meat with an expression of faint disgust. Merlin didn't seem to be a hunter or woodsman, yet he had held up remarkably well during the not quite two weeks that had passed since they'd left Camelot. Gwaine thought that he'd probably picked up a lot on the prince's hunting trips, although Arthur hadn't asked Merlin to accompany him into the woods in what felt like a mysteriously long time. And Merlin was fairly good at learning what he didn't know yet, and all of them were happy to help him with what he struggled with. Well, except for Arthur, who still avoided him more often than not and had lapsed into a snappish brooding mood ever since he'd talked to Merlin in the forest a few days ago.

Gwaine stood up to help Merlin haul the pieces of venison over the fire, and suppressed a smile when Merlin immediately wiped his hands on his trousers. "Thanks," he said, surveying the clearing with a distracted glance as though he wanted to check if there was anything else that needed doing. But he didn't seem to find anything, because he plopped down on the log as well when Gwaine sat down again.

Up close, Merlin looked tired, like he hadn't been getting enough sleep—his naturally pale skin made the bags under his eyes stand out in even starker contrast. His features seemed tight, his eyes constantly alert and ready to spring to attention as soon as Arthur so much as beckoned to him, but even the tense set of his shoulders couldn't disguise the weariness Gwaine sensed beneath. He suddenly wondered if Merlin spent the long evenings in the inns trying to talk to Arthur about whatever needed talking so badly, losing precious sleep over trying to find just the right words that would break through the wall of silence Arthur had built between them.

Gwaine frowned at the mental image, a familiar, useless surge of protective anger washing over him. He knew very well that asking Merlin why the hell he thought the prince was even worth it would just provoke him. But sometimes it was hard not to say anything, not to ask and poke and prod at his friend until he told him what was wrong, what he had done to Arthur that was terrible enough for Merlin to bear the silent treatment without complaint.

He pushed the thought away with some difficulty, and in lieu of talking, he settled for offering his cup to Merlin, well aware of how badly Merlin held his drink; but if he had some wine now, he'd get at least one much-needed night of sleeping like a log. Merlin flashed him another grateful smile and took a long swallow of spiced wine, wincing a little at the unfamiliar burn of alcohol down his throat before he handed it back.

They sat for a while in comfortable silence as the fire crackled and popped and the scent of grilled meat began to fill the clearing. Leon sat down on the opposite side of the fire, giving them a smile before he took off his boots and placed them close to the flames to dry. Lancelot was checking on the horses—or trying to, at least, and Gwaine smiled when he saw Gryngolet turn his backside to his fellow knight with an arrogant toss of his head.

With his damp hair and the colors of his hunting garb, it took Gwaine a second to recognize Arthur against the dark backdrop of the wet trees. He was kneeling next to his mare, wiping mud from her leg and carefully feeling her ankle; Gwaine suddenly remembered that Llamrei had tripped a little earlier that day when she'd stepped into a surprisingly deep puddle. She hadn't limped at all, as far as he could tell, but apparently Arthur wanted to make sure her leg was as fine as it appeared to be. Llamrei patiently endured the probing touch, occasionally raising her head from where she was munching on grass to bump companionably against her master's shoulder.

"You and Gryngolet seem to be getting along at last," Merlin suddenly said, and when Gwaine looked at him, he saw that Merlin was looking towards the horses as well, his gaze resting on Arthur with a fond, absent smile that he didn't seem to be aware of.

Gwaine cleared his throat and looked away. "Yeah, well," he shrugged, gulping down another mouthful of wine before he spoke again. "I'm a likeable kind of guy. Persistent, too."

Merlin snorted out a laugh, but didn't reply, and they lapsed back into silence for a while. The whole forest was sopping wet around them, water trickling down the leaves and creating a cacophony of dripping noise that almost made Gwaine think that it was still raining. Merlin got up for a moment to feed another relatively dry piece of wood into the flames; he hadn't thought they'd ever get a fire going in this weather, but it had been crackling merrily when he and Leon had returned from their hunt.

Leon tested the state of his boots by putting them back on, and Gwaine saw him blink in surprise—the leather looked almost dry, although it had only been resting next to the fire for a few minutes. He shook his head slightly and shrugged, as if to say that he wasn't going to question the welcome warmth around his toes, and rose from the mossy ground, dusting off his trousers. Merlin's gaze followed when Leon walked over to the packhorse with a new bounce to his step, and he smiled a little to himself like he was enjoying a private joke.

Gwaine got up to refill his cup from the cauldron of wine that they'd heated over the fire until the venison took its place, and when he sat back down, Merlin seemed to have straightened up a bit. He was looking at Gwaine with a thoughtful expression, like he'd just remembered something that had been on his mind for quite a while. Gwaine raised his eyebrows in a silent question as he sipped on his cup, hoping that it would be enough to encourage Merlin to talk—it probably wasn't what Gwaine wished he would talk to him about, but he still wanted to hear it.

Merlin wet his lips before he spoke, and his gaze darted back to the fire as though he was searching for words. "I've been thinking," he began slowly, "about... you know, the whole thing with the dead vassals and the ivy..."

He trailed off, but Gwaine lowered his cup and nodded at him to continue. It wasn't like he hadn't thought of it as well sometimes during the long hours of the night, but although Arthur had explained it to him at the beginning of their journey, he still didn't really get why everyone was getting so worked up over some murdered noblemen.

"What about you, then?" Merlin asked, quietly now, like he didn't want anyone else listening in on this conversation. "Do _you_ think the Green Knight killed Sir Ricbert? I mean, you talked to him at the feast..."

Gwaine kept his shrug casual enough, but the memory pushed itself to the front of his mind with gentle insistence, stirred back to life by Merlin's words. It was slightly hazy at the edges from how much he'd drunk that night, but the image of the Green Knight was still as undimmed as it had been back then. Oddly enough, the thing he remembered most clearly was the man's scent as he'd sat down beside Gwaine at the table—it hadn't been the usual stench of sweat, leather and horse that came with traveling. He'd smelled of wet earth and freshly-grown grass instead, of the first trees that dared to unfold their young leaves after a long winter, something clear and sharp that had roused Gwaine's cider-addled mind from its drunk state.

"I asked him where he'd come from," Gwaine said, mostly to himself; the sight of the fire seemed to blur before his eyes, giving way to the golden glow of candlelight that had filled the hall that evening. "He just said he had hailed from far away, so I reckoned he didn't want to talk and got him some cider instead."

No matter how few words had been exchanged between them, Gwaine still remembered the long, searching look the man had given him, his startlingly green eyes traveling up and down his body as if assessing his strengths and weaknesses. If Gwaine had been sober, he might have felt uncomfortable with being studied so closely, attentively enough for the look to feel like a physical touch. But he'd just smiled at the man, his spirit mellowed and tamed by wine, and hadn't second-guessed the slow pull of heat that had trickled into his stomach when the stranger had smiled back.

Merlin was silent beside him, and Gwaine realized that he'd been quiet for too long. He shook his head slightly to clear it of the echo of sound that seemed to drift up from the corners of his mind—a bard had been tuning his fiddle, he remembered, but even the music had had nothing on hearing the Green Knight speak, a voice like the rough slide of a hand over an ancient tree's sun-warmed bark.

"I was a bit sloshed," he continued, matter-of-factly, and found himself grinning at the memory of pleasant dizziness, of the odd compulsion to catch and hold the stranger's green gaze whenever possible, even though his conversational skills had been somewhat impaired by alcohol. "I tried to challenge him to a drinking game, but he said he had another challenge in stock for the night."

"And we all know how that turned out." Merlin nodded, sighing a little, and Gwaine thought that he was probably remembering the king's relapse into the jittery, white-faced silence that they'd all become so familiar with since their battle against Cenred's army.

Gwaine sighed as well, drank some more wine, and looked into the dancing flames again. The smell of roasted venison was making his stomach rumble, but the hunger seemed distant, a poor copy of sensation compared to the memory of the rush that had gone through him at the feast when the Green Knight had challenged the court. It was the sort of thing that Gwaine normally would have scoffed at, the kind of promised glory that ignited a fire in the eyes of young squires who couldn't tell foolishness from bravery.

But the reckless impulse to rise to the impossible challenge had still bubbled up in him even as a glance towards the high table had confirmed that Arthur was about to get up himself. He remembered the warning look Leon had leveled at him, but it hadn't nearly been enough to tamper the pull of exhilarated urgency that plucked at him, like the expert fingers of a musician testing the strings of his instrument. Of course Gwaine hadn't acted on his impulse in the end, astonished as he'd been by Uther's harsh dismissal of the stranger, but the memory was enough to make him almost regret that he hadn't gotten his chance.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Arthur, Leon, and Lancelot sat down on the log on the other side of the fire. Leon handed wooden dishes to each of them, then poked at the venison with his knife and pronounced it quite through. They ate mostly in silence, and although Gwaine burned his tongue on the steaming meat as he swallowed his first bite too quickly, he couldn't quite tug his mind back to the present.

His thoughts had stubbornly latched on to the evening of the feast, circling the memory like greedy predators waiting for their prey to fall, and Gwaine couldn't help but roll his eyes at himself. A wet clearing in an even wetter forest wasn't the right place to think of missed opportunities for adventures, especially since this whole quest thing they were doing was working out quite well. It was not as glorious or exciting as what the Green Knight had promised, but Gwaine figured that for now, it would have to do.

 

 

The next day, looking at the farmer pinned beneath Arthur's unrelenting glare of princely ire, Gwaine silently revised his opinion of their quest.

Granted, they hadn't done much besides riding around the countryside, staring at ivy, and questioning villagers, but feeling the silence grow thicker by the second was entertaining in its own right. Arthur's features were carved out of stone, and although they were still traveling incognito, an air of royalty seemed drawn around him like a cloak.

Never mind epic challenges or courageous adventures—the commanding fury in Arthur's eyes provided quite enough glory for this quest on his own. Well, Gwaine might have thought something along those lines if he'd been easily impressed, which he thankfully wasn't.

At least not as easily impressed as the farmer, it seemed. The man was squirming in his seat, a light sheen of sweat beginning to bead on his brow, and his gaze kept darting left and right as if in search of help. Gwaine knew that he wouldn't get any, though—the only other villagers in the room were a cowed barmaid who was wiping the same table over and over again, and the innkeeper himself, far less obliging than the one they had met in Treffynnon.

Just as Gwaine had anticipated the day before, they had reached Torpelei before nightfall, and had spent the night in the local inn, since taverns were just the right place to go to for information. Like in Treffynnon, the people of Torpelei seemed skittish, afraid of something they didn't dare to name, but on top of that, there had been a palpable unease in the air as soon as Arthur had cautiously inquired after the local dead nobleman. And well, after having heard the story that the reluctant farmer had told them, Gwaine understood why.

"Let me get this straight," Arthur said, his voice cold and final. The farmer gave him a pleading look, but the prince's stony expression didn't budge. Gwaine hadn't thought it would. "Your lord, one Sir Gromer Somer Joure, was killed almost two months ago, judging from the state of the body when you found him in the woods, but you only started looking for him when he'd been missing for several weeks."

The farmer's mouth opened, trembled, and shut again, like he wanted to defend himself and his fellow villagers, but found himself silenced against his will by Arthur's unrelenting glare. Next to Gwaine, Leon sighed almost inaudibly, looking disappointed—he'd probably hoped to see a bit more of a backbone within the trembling man before them.

"By that time, the murderer was gone, of course," Arthur went on. He wasn't shouting, he hadn't even raised his voice, but the words still sounded too loud in the perfect quietude of the room. "And your lord's house at the edge of the village was overgrown with ivy."

"It was magic, I'm sure of it," the farmer babbled, prodded out of his cowed silence at last, although Gwaine wished he hadn't spoken—his tone was a pleading tremble, as though Arthur were holding a sword to his throat and he was trying to talk himself out of certain death. "I've never seen the likes of it, it _must_ have been magic, sire."

Arthur hadn't revealed his station to the man, but he used the honorific anyway, probably thinking that it would appease him; but by the sudden spark of danger in his eyes, Gwaine guessed that it just made him angrier.

"And you, along with some other farmers, broke into the house," Arthur continued, like he'd never been interrupted in the first place, "stole everything that wasn't nailed down and looked even remotely valuable, and sold the bauble to the first traveling merchant who came along."

The barmaid had stopped wiping the table near the window and was standing with her back to them, her shoulders rigid, and Gwaine thought that she would have long since bolted out the door if she hadn't had to cross the room to get to it. He leaned back against the door leading to the stairwell, flicking a glance at the innkeeper; Arthur had his back to him, but the man didn't look like he'd try anything foolish anyway.

Arthur shook his head, very lightly, but the gesture spoke volumes. He looked disappointed now, on top of coldly furious, and Gwaine didn't blame the farmer when he went even paler than he'd been before. "Your lord had two children," Arthur said, his voice quiet. "A girl, barely of age, and a young boy. Their mother died when they were young, and they became orphans when their father was murdered."

The farmer had stopped squirming and sat in silence, awaiting his fate like a man condemned. Gwaine was sure that Arthur wouldn't actually _kill_ him, or any of the others, but Arthur was doing a rather good job at this whole vengeful judge impression he had going on, and the farmer was clearly fearing for his life.

"I'm sure they were terrified of the magical transformation of their home," Arthur went on. "They probably fled into the forest, but none of you went looking for them—"

"He had a hunting lodge to the west," the innkeeper suddenly interrupted, the words bursting out so quickly that Gwaine was sure that he'd been wanting to say them for quite some time. Arthur turned his head, just enough to give the man a level look, and the innkeeper shrunk back a little.

"Sir Gromer, I mean," he said, sounding slightly cowed, now that the room's attention was on him. "He used to go there in the summer, and we— we think that his children probably went there, as they couldn't stay in the house any longer, with all the ivy."

"I see," Arthur replied. Over Arthur's shoulder, Gwaine saw Merlin grimace a little as if in sympathy for the two villagers—the prince's tone was soft, silky, almost, but his left hand had clenched into a fist on the table. His other hand was doubtlessly placed on the dagger at his belt. "So you left a young woman and her fourteen-year-old brother to their own devices in the woods, after their father had died, and just assumed that they would be fine?"

No one spoke. Lancelot looked faintly disgusted and a bit sad, like it escaped him how anyone could be this unkind to innocent people; Gwaine would have rolled his eyes at his fellow knight in any other situation, but right now, he found himself empathizing with him.

The silence stretched, but this time the farmer was the first to break. "He wasn't a good lord, sire," he burst out, a bit of righteous anger stirring underneath the poorly disguised fear in his tone. "He never did anything to stop the poachers—Torpelei's forest is quite large, sire, and we never used to lack venison until they showed up. And he imposed taxes on us— _taxes!_ "

Arthur remained silent through the man's slight pause, and the farmer deflated a little since he'd obviously been hoping for some sort of acknowledgement. "We'd ask him what king he thought he was collecting taxes for, sire, since we knew he was thinking about selling us to Camelot," he went on, a bit subdued now since Arthur's expression didn't budge. "And he said he was collecting them in advance so he could get the best possible feudal relationship out of Camelot's king once he'd sworn his oath of fealty."

A muscle twitched in Arthur's cheek, but other than that, he didn't allow himself a visible reaction to the fact that the late Sir Gromer had been planning to bribe his father into finally making him an official vassal of Camelot. "And that's his children's fault?" he asked, simply enough, but the last bit of fight seemed to drain out of the farmer at the words. He stared down at the table, not daring to meet the prince's eyes anymore.

After a pause, Arthur rose from his seat and turned to the innkeeper, who shrank back a little against the wall. His eyes were still hard as flint, ready to strike up sparks at the slightest provocation, but his tone was civil enough, if slightly clipped. "I refuse to stay in this inn any longer," he said, and the man nodded hastily, not even remotely indignant at the veiled insult to his tavern.

Gwaine pushed himself away from the door frame when Arthur sought his eyes, and watched as Arthur glanced at each of them as though searching for contradiction in their features and finding none. "We'll ride out into the forest and search for this hunting lodge," he stated, his tone brooking no argument, but Gwaine knew that none of them would have objected even if the prince had given them the chance. "Lancelot, Gwaine, come with me and ready the horses. Merlin, Leon, get our luggage."

They sprung into action without question; Gwaine noticed, with a small flicker of amusement, that Merlin had started to edge towards the stairwell even before Arthur had completed his order. He flashed him a quick grin on his way to the door, and Merlin smiled back, looking just as relieved as Gwaine felt—even without this story of the lord and his village, he wouldn't have wanted to stay in the tavern any longer either. The beds were so lumpy that he'd hardly slept the night before, and the food wasn't nearly as good as in Treffynnon.

He followed Arthur and Lancelot to the door, but glanced back for a moment. The farmer was wiping sweat from his brow, looking like he couldn't quite believe his luck—apparently he really had thought that Arthur would stab him with the dagger he'd been gripping under the table. The innkeeper looked just as shell-shocked, but the barmaid seemed almost relieved; she'd started wiping down another table, her movements quick and practiced, like she was just glad that no blood had been shed.

Gwaine barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stepped out of the room, squinting against the bright sunshine that greeted him. Arthur really had it in him to intimidate people if he wanted to—true, he had been furious with the villagers, but Gwaine knew very well that he'd never have taken his anger out on them, no matter what they had done wrong.

He glanced over at the prince as he trailed after Lancelot, and thought that while Arthur's shoulders still seemed tight, there was a determined bounce in his step that had been missing before. Gwaine felt his own mood lighten right along with the prince's—it would be nice to actually have witnesses to question about the murder, instead of standing around staring at ivy. And maybe the hunting lodge was better stocked in terms of drinks.

 

 

When Merlin nearly got unhorsed by a stubborn tree branch for the fourth time, he was ready to just dismount and walk on foot.

He sighed in annoyance as he brushed twigs and leaves from his hair, and ducked low over his horse's neck just in time to avoid another low-hanging branch. The huge, nameless forest that covered the western section of the Northern Plains was thicker than any of the forests he'd been in in Camelot. At least there'd been a trail to follow when they had approached Torpelei, but now they were just riding along without so much as a dirt track for orientation. They were still headed west in the general direction of the dead lord's hunting lodge, and the undergrowth was thickening progressively, to the point that they'd had to slow their horses down to a walk.

Well, at least his horse wasn't plotting to throw him off. Ahead of him, Gwaine was swearing under his breath, the curses getting more and more colorful the longer they rode on. Merlin had thought that he'd made a truce with his horse, but apparently Gryngolet had just been waiting for the right moment to let his evil intentions towards his rider resurface. He kept edging away from the others no matter how much Gwaine tried to keep him close to Arthur and Lancelot's horses, and Gwaine constantly had to dodge prickly pine branches and leaf-laden twigs whipping into his face and tugging at his hair.

Merlin suppressed his smile despite the fact that Gwaine's back was turned to him, and turned to glance over his shoulder for a moment. The packhorse seemed unperturbed by the stubbornly clinging undergrowth, trudging along behind him, and their luggage was still safely tied to its back, although various twigs and leaves had gotten stuck in the straps. Merlin caught Leon's eye across the packhorse's bowed head, and the knight gave him a tight smile before he resumed gazing at the forest around them as though he was waiting for them to be attacked at any second.

Prodded into a mild state of alarm by the way Leon's hand was gripping his still-sheathed dagger, Merlin turned back around just in time to see a growing glimmer of light ahead. He touched his heels to his horse's flanks, and it sped up obediently, matching the quickened pace of the others—apparently Merlin wasn't the only one who was excited at the prospect of getting out of the thicket and into a clearing, if only just for a moment.

The treeline fell away as though cut down as Merlin reached open ground to the sound of a small brook gurgling through the undergrowth. The forest had been thick enough to muffle it, but now the sound of running water echoed through the clearing; his horse urged towards the water, and Merlin dismounted in time to see the others do the same.

The horses drank deeply, and Merlin let his gaze travel across the tall trees around them. The treeline was thick, no trails or tracks leading away from it, and even the path that their horses had cut through the undergrowth seemed to disappear progressively, the bushes bending back and the grass straightening up again. He could hear the rustle of leaves all around them, stirred by a breeze that didn't reach all the way down into the clearing, and from far away, the stubborn tapping of a woodpecker.

For just a moment, he paused, frowning, his eyes resting on a pine tree where the brook burst out of the forest—he thought he'd seen a flash of silver there, the tell-tale shimmer of sunlight being reflected by armor. But he didn't see it again, and none of the others seemed to have noticed anything. Arthur and Leon were talking quietly, and although Merlin was standing too far away to make out the words, he could guess what they were discussing. Leon looked unnerved and vaguely entreating, like he was insisting that they had to leave this forest as soon as possible; Merlin couldn't see Arthur's expression, since his back was turned to him, but judging from his gestures, he was trying to reassure his fellow knight.

Gwaine flopped down on an outcropping of rock near the brook, bent over, and shook his head. Tiny twigs and pine needles tumbled down to his shoulders, and he started combing his fingers through his hair with an annoyed look in Gryngolet's general direction. The stallion chose that exact moment to lift his head from the brook and glance over at Gwaine, like he was examining the fruits that his hard labor had brought, and the annoyance in Gwaine's eyes transformed into a glare that promised revenge. Apparently the truce was over for good.

When Merlin turned towards the packhorse in the hopes of grabbing a bite to eat before they set out again, he spotted the knight immediately.

He must have made some sort of warning noise, because the murmur of Leon's voice cut off, and then he heard a dagger being drawn to his left. Someone pushed past him, shouldering him roughly aside so that he stumbled into Lancelot, and he had just steadied himself when Arthur stepped in front of them, putting himself into the stranger's line of sight.

There was a short, tense silence, only broken by the sounds of the forest around them. Then the knight stepped forward and out of the shadowy treeline, and Merlin immediately felt stupid for his alarm. True, the knight was in full armor, but something looked slightly off—the hauberk seemed too long, the pauldron sitting awkwardly on narrow shoulders, and it took Merlin a long moment to realize that the armor was simply too big for the stranger.

"Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot?" the knight asked, and his voice confirmed Merlin's suspicion—it wasn't as high as a child's, but he could tell that it had only just begun to deepen into the lower registers of adulthood. His tone made up for it, though, a thinly veiled threat hovering behind the simple words; Merlin had no doubt that if the stranger had been older, the knights would have moved to stand at Arthur's side by now, their daggers unsheathed.

As it was, they seemed a bit nonplussed. From the corner of his eye, Merlin could see Gwaine slowly advance towards them, closing their left flank, but although he walked carefully enough for his feet to make no sound on the soft ground, his expression was thoroughly baffled and even a bit amused, rather than tight and ready for battle. Lancelot exchanged a quick glance with Leon, looking just as puzzled.

After a short pause, Arthur gave a single nod, his shoulders relaxing visibly although his hand didn't stray from his belt. Merlin stepped around him, a bit annoyed that Arthur's back was blocking his view, and received a short glare for his trouble. Leon moved to Merlin's right, apparently not trusting the stranger's relatively harmless appearance.

The man—boy—paused for a moment, as though he hadn't expected Arthur to be so straightforward in his reply, and despite himself, Merlin felt a small twinge of wariness coil in his stomach. Then the stranger moved to loosen his gauntlet from his wrist, his gloved fingers clumsy on the buckles; Merlin thought absently that the boy was possibly even more unpracticed at taking off armor than he had been on his first day as Arthur's manservant.

He almost smiled at the thought, but the expression slid from his face as though wiped off when the boy finally managed to disengage the gauntlet and threw it down at Arthur's feet. It bounced slightly on the soft ground, the metal shimmering like it had been freshly polished.

"I challenge you to a duel," the boy said, raising his voice as if to cover up a tremor of uncertainty. He sounded oddly tinny through his helmet, and he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword—which was too big for him as well, Merlin noticed—as if to make up for it. "Single combat, here and now. To the death."

A ringing silence followed the words, only interrupted by a slightly incredulous snort from Gwaine. Lancelot, who had come to stand next to Gwaine at some point, nudged his fellow knight with his elbow, and the snort tapered off into a poorly faked cough.

Arthur inclined his head in acknowledgement at the boy, but he made no move to take up the gauntlet. His features had hardened into what Merlin had long ago started to call his courtly mask—the one he wore when he tried to convince his father of something in a council meeting. It was a mixture of respect and persistence, although Merlin saw that his heart wasn't in it now, judging from how he was keeping his hand well clear of his long dagger.

He looked down at the gauntlet for a moment, but Merlin knew that he wasn't even thinking about taking it up—nevertheless, he kept his tone polite and aloof when he asked, "May I see to whom I am speaking?"

The boy hesitated, but then he took off the helmet, and Merlin almost recoiled when he saw how young he really was. His face was flushed from the heat that must have accumulated under the metal, but his eyes, a startling blue under a mop of tousled brown hair, were blazing.

"Do you _refuse_ me?" he asked, his tone angry and incredulous in equal measures. He drew himself up to his full height, although he still barely came up to Arthur's shoulder. "By the chivalric code, you are obliged to—"

"The chivalric code," Arthur interrupted, the barest hint of steel lacing the patience in his voice, "applies to knights, and knights only. Show me your seal of nobility that states where and when you've been knighted, and then I might think about this challenge of yours."

Of course the boy didn't move, just held Arthur's gaze in a stubborn effort to save the last scraps of his dignity. Merlin saw that his hands were clenched into fists, and suddenly he noticed the dark circles under the boy's eyes, how pale he seemed under the flush on his face. Arthur sighed, briefly rubbing a hand across his forehead; he seemed tired as well, and Merlin fought down a sudden rush of sympathy. No matter how often he had called Arthur arrogant in the past, he knew that the prince didn't enjoy humiliating a mere child in front of his knights.

But then he cleared his throat in an attempt to chase the awkward tension from the air, and gave his would-be challenger a long, searching look. "How did you know who I am?"

The boy's head snapped up as if Arthur had struck him, his eyes blazing with fury, and Merlin didn't blame Leon for taking a startled step forwards, closer to Arthur's side. "You—," the boy sputtered, as words seemed to fail him in his sudden anger for a moment. "You have the _audacity_ to show your face here—"

Leon took a breath, obviously about to intervene, since that was no way to speak to a prince, but a quick, forbidding glance from Arthur made him swallow down the reprimand. Nobody made a sound, save for the boy, whose breath was coming in short, sharp bursts of air as he fought to rein in his anger enough to speak.

"You had my father _murdered_ ," he said at last, his voice trembling with the effort of keeping himself from shouting, "and now you've come to claim his lands—don't think I haven't figured out your conspiracy!" He took a deep, hitching breath, and Merlin was sure that he'd already have flown at Arthur with his fists if it hadn't been for the knights surrounding him, chivalric code be damned. "Those ungrateful pigs down at the village probably _sent_ you here, for all I know! They were so _glad_ when father died, they plundered our home before they'd even buried him in the backyard—"

He broke off, chest heaving under the pauldron that was surely too heavy for his thin frame, and Merlin glanced away, swallowing hard. The dark shadows around his eyes and the invisible weight that seemed to bear down on his shoulders made a lot more sense now. Arthur looked stricken for a moment, comprehension dawning on his features—the boy had challenged him to avenge his father, however misguided the attempt might have been.

Then he straightened up, as though to bear the weight of that accusation for the moment until it could be removed. His tone was almost soft when he asked, quietly, "Who was your father?"

"The lord of Torpelei," the boy replied, barely above a whisper this time, although not even that could disguise the tremble in his voice anymore. "Sir Gromer Somer Joure."

Merlin blinked at him in utter surprise, and saw Lancelot and Gwaine exchange an astonished look from the corner of his eye—obviously, none of them had quite seen that coming. He suddenly remembered the farmer's words in the tavern, and of course it made sense now; the boy had mentioned that the villagers had been less than grieved at their lord's death. But the farmer had also told them about the ivy, and as unwilling as Merlin still was to believe that the man was evil in any way, it seemed out of the question that the Green Knight was once more the one responsible for the murder.

But he certainly wasn't affiliated to Camelot, and Merlin didn't understand why the boy thought Arthur—and, by association, the king—to be the culprit. He looked back and forth between Arthur and the dead nobleman's son, and saw that Lancelot was frowning too, waiting for some sort of explanation to be coaxed out of him.

"Whose armor are you wearing, boy?" Arthur asked at last, not unkindly, and Merlin couldn't help a small sigh of relief when he realized that Arthur wasn't going to press the issue now. He'd probably noticed as well that the boy had been pushed to the limits of his endurance for now, and was trying to steer the conversation onto safer ground.

"My father's," the boy replied, the sullen defeat in his tone quite at odds with his earlier bravado. "And my name is Erik."

Arthur nodded slowly, seeming to choose his next words with great care so as not to make the situation even worse for him. "Your gauntlet," he finally said, gently now, and stepped back, an unspoken invitation for the boy to retrieve the piece of his father's armor.

The boy took a few reluctant steps towards them, his wary glance skimming over Leon and Merlin as he bent down, obviously unwilling to bare his neck to them. Merlin attempted a reassuring smile, but Erik was already looking away once more, giving Arthur a humiliated, suspiciously bright glare as he grabbed the gauntlet and stepped back.

"I'm not dressed for combat, as you can see," Arthur went on, gesturing at his hunting garb and the daggers on his belt. "You wouldn't have wanted to win an unequal fight, would you?"

Insinuating that an untrained fourteen-year-old could have won a duel against Arthur seemed ridiculous, but no one laughed, not even Gwaine, and Merlin found himself suddenly grateful. Erik held Arthur's gaze for a long moment, visibly conflicted as he turned the words over in his head and tried to find fault with them, but at last he shook his head and looked away, shoulders slumping.

Arthur let out an almost inaudible sigh, brief, guilty unease flashing across his expression as he'd obviously noticed that the boy was close to tears. But he didn't hesitate when he placed hand on Erik's shoulder, and held on when he tried to flinch away. "I am sorry for your loss," Arthur said, his voice gone quiet with sincerity, "but I swear to you, on my honor as crown prince, that Camelot did neither plan nor benefit from your father's death."

A moment passed before Erik looked up at Arthur again, his too-bright eyes flickering across the prince's features, like he was searching for deceit or dishonesty and found none. He might not have been properly introduced to the chivalric code yet, but he obviously could recognize a vow when he saw one, because Merlin saw his stance shift from stubborn to something more relaxed. His throat worked as he swallowed, but then Erik nodded, albeit reluctantly, and looked away towards the treeline, breathing hard through his nose to get himself under control again.

The tension seemed to lift from the air, and Merlin allowed himself a relieved sigh of his own. Dried leaves crackled on his right, and he knew without looking that Leon had stepped back, his hand probably dropping from his dagger now that the situation was defused.

"I don't know about you," Arthur declared, the jovial tone only partly forced as he gazed around the clearing to include the knights in the statement, "but I'm famished all of a sudden." He turned to Erik again, with a smile that was half tentative and half reassuring, and continued, "Why don't we hunt down some lunch, and you tell us what happened, and we'll see if we can figure out who really killed your father?"

The boy nodded again, more quickly this time, and cast a tentative look at the surrounding knights. "You could..." His voice came out scratchy and he cleared his throat, straightening up a little before he repeated, "You could all come to my father's hunting lodge, if you like."

Arthur declared that they would like that indeed, and clapped him on the shoulder, maybe a bit too heavily—Erik stumbled when the weight of his too-large armor was suddenly tipped forward. But the brief, hesitant twitch of his lips when he looked up at Arthur was unmistakable, and Merlin turned away to hide his own smile.

His horse was waiting for him by the brook, chewing on a bit of grass, and the packhorse greeted him with a friendly bump of its nose to his shoulder when he took up its reins. Leon had already mounted and was riding over to where Arthur was trying to convince Erik to mount Llamrei, in vain, it seemed. But Arthur kept rolling his eyes surreptitiously whenever Erik wasn't looking, so Merlin guessed that the boy was insisting that he couldn't just ride a prince's steed.

Merlin heaved himself up onto his horse's back easily, unlike Gwaine, who was hopping after Gryngolet with a disgruntled expression, his left foot already in the stirrup although the stallion kept stepping to the side whenever he tried to swing himself up into the saddle. Gwaine's back was turned to him, so Merlin allowed himself a wry grin—he knew that Gwaine was actually quite good a rider, but it _was_ nice not to be the one looking like an idiot around horses for once.

The clearing seemed larger from horseback, and Merlin took one last look around as he slowly steered his horse over to where Erik was motioning them to a previously unnoticed trail into the forest. The brook was still rippling and gurgling away, the water glittering in the sunlight, but something else caught his attention from just above eye level.

He looked up into a tall beech that seemed oddly out of place amidst all the pine trees, and saw three ravens sitting on a low-hanging branch, in a neat row as though they'd observed the whole scene and were now waiting for them to leave. It could just have been a trick of the light, but Merlin thought their feathers were an almost too glossy black, shimmering even in the shade beneath a thick canopy of leaves. They seemed to be looking at him, beady eyes twinkling as they cocked their heads as if in thought.

Then one of them took flight in a flurry of wings, shaking the branch, and the other two followed suit. Merlin turned his head to watch them fly past, disappearing out of sight beyond the treetops, and he rolled his eyes at himself—it had just been some random birds, and it was stupid to assume they'd been watching them. He urged his horse forward with a nudge of his heels, catching up to the others as they rode beneath the shady trees once more.

The image stayed with him, though, the three black silhouettes sitting next to each other on a tree branch, oddly unreal for their utter stillness until one had flown away. A memory rose to the front of his mind, unbidden and long forgotten—it had looked almost like the picture from Gaius' book of fairytales and songs, the one he'd been perusing that night after the disastrous feast. True, there'd been a knight in the picture as well, and at least one dog, but the three ravens had been just the same, sat in a row upon a tree as though bearing witness.

Merlin ducked to get rid of a stubborn twig that had lodged itself in his hair, and rolled his eyes again. If this were a fairytale, he thought somewhat sourly, he wouldn't keep getting whacked in the face by cheeky trees' appendages. On the other hand, in a fairytale he'd probably be wearing a pointy hat, and possibly a wand, and maybe he'd have a beard too. He shook his head, brushing leaves out of his hair—no, all in all, he was quite satisfied with things as they were.

 

 

The hunting lodge proved to be little more than just that—a sturdy wooden hut with a thatched roof, built to withstand the seasons even if left unattended, and provide shelter for exhausted hunters. Nevertheless, Erik looked slightly uncomfortable when he opened the door for them, like he was well aware that the ivy-covered house in Torpelei would have made a far more fitting resting place for a prince and his entourage. But Arthur just complimented the impressive set of antlers that hung from the wall inside, and the boy seemed a little appeased.

He'd sent Leon and Lancelot to go hunting on the way, and they caught up with them with armfuls of rabbits not even five minutes later. Leon immediately moved to help Merlin take their luggage off the packhorse, leaving Gwaine to help Lancelot carry the skinned animals inside, and Arthur couldn't help rolling his eyes. He'd noticed Leon grow somewhat protective of Merlin during the past few months, although in a quiet, subtle sort of way that he wouldn't even have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it. Arthur told himself that he was grateful that someone else was looking out for Merlin, since the heavens knew that the moron needed someone to tie the laces of his boots for him on an ordinary day. Mostly, though, he found himself growing quietly annoyed.

Erik practically fell all over himself when Arthur asked him where he kept dishes and the like, and although Arthur was repeatedly assured that he didn't need to help, he insisted on setting the table with the boy. Merlin carried in an armful of their bedrolls and promptly tripped over the doorstep, sprawling onto the floor in a flail of limbs, but he jumped up again right away, insisting that he was fine to a slightly worried Gwaine.

Arthur rolled his eyes again, but chose not to comment on the scene when the scent of grilled meat began to waft his way from the general direction of the fire. An open fireplace had been built into the far wall, complete with a spit on which the rabbits were turning now. The windows were relatively small, not letting in all that much of the fading afternoon sunlight; whoever had built the hut had obviously aimed for safety rather than comfort. It was situated in the middle of the forest, rather than in a clearing, although a few of the surrounding trees had been cut down. Most of the undergrowth had been left, and the windows were small enough not to reflect the sunlight all that noticeably. Arthur literally hadn't seen the house until Erik had walked up to the front door.

A floor-length curtain divided the main room next to the table, but not even a breeze stirred the cloth, and no one came to join them despite the racket they were making. Arthur frowned slightly—hadn't the villagers said something about two children, a boy and a girl, barely of age? Maybe she was out in the woods gathering berries or something, and anyway, he was sure that asking after her wouldn't go over too well. As far as Erik was concerned, Arthur was still a stranger; he had only the prince's word to trust, and Arthur figured that after the villagers' treatment of his father's death, even that wasn't particularly reassuring.

They lit the candles on the large chandelier that hung from the ceiling to stave off the growing twilight and sat down to eat. Erik had opened a cask of wine in an effort to make the meal more becoming for his guests, noticeably better stuff than what they'd been served in Torpelei's tavern. After Gwaine had downed his third goblet, Arthur gave up shooting surreptitious glares at him in an effort to make him slow down—it wasn't like he couldn't hold his drink.

But it was growing darker outside, and no matter how delicious the rabbit was or how the wine was starting to make everything a little fuzzy around the edges, Arthur's thoughts kept returning to Sir Gromer's second child. Conversation around the table was generally kept to trivial matters—Lancelot was describing the process of knighting to Erik, who listened with rapt attention, and Leon poured water into Merlin's wine when he wasn't looking. But Arthur couldn't help but think of the dangers of getting lost in a forest at night, especially one as thick as the forest around Torpelei, and so he finally cleared his throat and put his goblet down.

"If you don't mind me asking," Arthur began after turning to Erik, careful to keep his tone neutral and only mildly interested, "where is your sister?"

There was a short, befuddled pause in which Merlin choked on the gulp of watered-down wine he'd just taken, and Lancelot lowered the piece of rabbit he'd just been about to bite into. "You know her?" Erik asked into the silence, his eyes growing wide and hopeful as he leaned forward. "You've _seen_ her? Where is she?"

"We don't know her," Arthur hastened to add, a little chagrined when Erik slumped back into his chair in defeat, his eyes darkening. "We heard of her from the villagers, and I was just wondering if she might have gotten lost in the forest—"

Erik snorted, but his amusement sounded hollow. "Ragnelle can take care of herself," he said, and sighed deeply, raking his hands through his hair. He seemed older somehow, the flickering candlelight casting strange shadows on his features as he looked at each of them, like he was trying to assess their trustworthiness.

But whether he trusted them or not, he seemed to have had enough of bearing whatever burden this was on his own. After a moment he said, his tone almost defeated, "I suppose I'd better start at the beginning."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin put his goblet down, shaking his head slightly to clear it of the effects of the wine—he felt a brief, wry flash of gratitude towards Leon, because if the wine hadn't been watered down, Merlin would surely be snoring already. Then he paused at his own train of thought, frowning a little, and wondered why he even felt that it was important that Merlin heard this story too.

"My father was the lord of Torpelei," Erik began, cautiously, like he was waiting to be interrupted. He flashed a brief glance at Arthur as if searching for some sort of support, but he looked back down at his hands before Arthur could react or even figure out how to reassure him.

"He was a _good_ lord," he continued after a moment, and this time he sounded stubborn and faintly belligerent, like he was repeating something that he'd been told all his life, "even if the ungrateful lot at the village never acknowledged all the things he's done for them."

Erik paused, a vague look of unease passing across his young features, and Arthur got the distinct feeling that he was only defending his father out of a misguided sense of duty. No one spoke up to contradict him, though—they weren't here to judge the late Sir Gromer's misdeeds, after all. The crackling of the fire filled the silence until Erik took a deep breath, visibly gathering himself, but the fact that nobody had spoken up to soil his father's memory with scathing words seemed to reassure him.

"Two months ago, a traveler passed through Torpelei and asked us for shelter for the night," he stated, and Arthur saw Leon and Gwaine exchange a quick, knowing look as they recognized the familiar pattern. "He was... well, he was..."

Erik broke off, searching for words, but in the end he just gestured ineffectively as though to say 'indescribable'. "He was a bit strange," he said at last, rather diplomatically, "but my father let him stay for dinner. He was very polite—he even flirted a little with my sister."

Gwaine snorted, his mouth curling in amusement. Arthur heard a muffled thump when someone, presumably Leon, kicked him under the table, and Gwaine's smile vanished into a grimace. Fortunately, Erik didn't seem to have noticed anything, or maybe he was too caught up in remembering that evening to pay attention to their reactions to his story. His eyes were slightly unfocused, gaze locked on something only he could see, as if the mental image of the Green Knight demanded his full attention even from the recesses of his memory.

"But when we'd eaten he got up," Erik continued, "and he said he'd come all the way from Camelot to test my father's strength of character, and he challenged him, but not to a duel, not really. It was more like an exchange of blows—something like, if my father struck one blow at him with his axe, he was supposed to receive one in return."

Opposite of Arthur, Lancelot nodded absently, like he was remembering the evening when the Green Knight had come to Camelot to put the court to the test. Merlin had leaned forward, mirroring Erik's posture with his hands folded on the tabletop, and the glassiness of wine was gone from his eyes. Even Gwaine seemed to listen with rapt attention, although he was still sipping on his goblet.

After a pause, Erik said, "My father accepted the challenge," almost proudly this time, and Arthur noticed that he was sitting up a bit straighter, like the memory of the one time that Sir Gromer had acted bravely was momentarily lifting the weight of grief from his shoulders. "He said he'd be a fool if he didn't take up that opportunity to live up to his reputation. He walked over and took the man's own axe, and cut off his head with one stroke."

Gwaine whistled low through his teeth, but this time, there was no trace of mockery or even amusement in his eyes. Leon was beginning to frown, clearly wondering how the Green Knight could have murdered Sir Gromer later on if he'd been decapitated by him, but Erik was still talking.

"We realized that something magical was going on then, because the man's body— well, it didn't sway or even fall down. It just walked over to where the head had rolled away under the table, and held it in his hands."

He looked up then, at the baffled expressions that they all wore, and shrugged as if in apology for the strangeness of his story. "He took back his axe," he said, quietly now, "and said that my father was supposed to meet him at his home to receive one blow in return. He told him to come to some place called the Green Chapel, thanked him for his hospitality, and left."

Arthur frowned into the hush that followed, and took a sip of wine to hide his confusion. It was the exact same challenge that the court of Camelot had received from the Green Knight at the feast, but something just felt off about it—it didn't make sense for the man to roam the Northern Plains in search of noblemen to challenge. Why hadn't he moved on to Mercia's court when he'd been turned away by the king, or even to Caerleon? He might even have found some worthy opponents in Cenred's fallen kingdom. The Northern Plains seemed like a poor choice if one wanted to find formidable warriors to fight, especially since they were more or less neutral ground, not belonging to any of the surrounding kingdoms.

The only possible explanation, Arthur thought as he put his goblet back down, was that the Green Knight had only sought out noblemen who were in some way affiliated to Camelot—noblemen who had already sworn their allegiance to them, like Sir Ricbert, or prospective vassals.

"My father thought about not going," Erik spoke up again, the words tumbling hastily from his mouth like he'd spent too much time wondering whether to hold them back. He looked at Arthur again, his expression almost pleading. "He'd _sworn_ it—he'd _promised_ the man that he would get his retribution, and I just— I don't understand how he could even _think_ about breaking his oath."

"Your father was probably worried what would happen to you and your sister if he died," Arthur replied—he didn't want to tell the boy that his dead father had probably fought his own cowardice every step along the way when he'd finally set out to face the Green Knight.

Erik shrugged, still looking unhappy, at least willing to let it go for now—but Arthur knew that this was a memory that would be dug up repeatedly over the next few years, and turned over again and again in the long hours of the night. One day Erik would understand that although his father had been a knight, he'd obviously not followed the chivalric code to the letter in his day, and Arthur couldn't help but feel selfishly glad that he wouldn't be there to witness that moment.

"And then?" Arthur prodded gently, when he just kept staring at his folded hands with a vague frown; all eyes rested on him for a moment, but no one said anything until Erik took a deep breath, and Arthur was grateful for the silence. There was an unspoken agreement in the room to let Arthur ask the questions—they didn't want to make Erik feel like he was being interrogated, after all.

"He— well, he did go in the end, about a week after the man had left," Erik went on, the words coming easier now; he did seem to want to get this off his chest after all, even if Arthur was still an almost complete stranger to him. "And he didn't come back."

His voice faltered for just a moment, but he just took a deep breath, determined to get the rest of the story out now. "My sister and I asked everyone if they knew what had happened, but no one in Torpelei had seen him. They did send out search parties at some point, but they said that my father had been dead for some time already when they found him."

Arthur saw his throat work when he swallowed, and looked away, not much feeling like disrupting the awkward silence this time. It wasn't like he didn't know the look—and smell—of bodies who'd been left at nature's mercy for too long, but the boy was just _fourteen_ , and from the way his face was going a little pale, Arthur guessed that the villagers had brought him to see his father's dead body. If the Green Knight's challenge was anything to go by, Sir Gromer had probably been decapitated, and maybe they hadn't found the head right away, needing someone to identify the corpse.

"His head had been cut off," Erik continued after a moment, his voice wavering only slightly, confirming Arthur's thoughts. "By a single stroke, just like the man said. I don't know for sure if it was really him who killed my father, but I think so."

Leon leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, catching and holding Arthur's gaze for a moment. Lancelot and Merlin were both looking down at the table, and Gwaine was absently tracing the rim of his goblet with his thumb, over and over. The motion was oddly hypnotic, and it took Arthur a moment to refocus his thoughts.

"And what about your sister—Ragnelle?" Arthur asked, remembering why he'd prodded the boy into telling them all this in the first place, and Erik sighed heavily, rubbing a tired hand across his forehead.

"She got it into her head that she needed to... _provide_ for me, or something," he replied, vague indignation creeping into his tone like he was remembering countless arguments. "And she said that the only way of making sure that we wouldn't live in poverty was for her to marry. So she ran off to try and find someone, since nobody around here would so much as look at her."

"Oh," Arthur muttered, for lack of anything better to say—he hadn't quite expected a story like that. It wasn't unusual, though, and Erik's sister was right, after all; the easiest way of ensuring one's material safety, especially that of a woman and her younger brother, was to marry someone with a steady income. He just hadn't expected to find a situation like this here, far away from the intrigues of any court.

"Not that she _couldn't_ find a man here," Erik suddenly said, almost tripping over the words in his haste. A flush had risen to his cheeks, and he was eyeing them warily like he wondered what they were thinking of his sister now. "No matter what the villagers told you about her, she is _not ugly_ ," and he glared at each of them in turn, daring anyone to disagree even though none of them had actually met Erik's sister yet. "She's just... different. But she's great—she can ride as well as any man, she loves hunting, and she's a crack shot with a bow."

"The villagers didn't tell us anything," Arthur said diplomatically, and Erik deflated a bit, visibly reassured. "I'm sure she's perfectly lovely."

Erik paused for a moment, his head cocked to the side as a calculating gleam entered his eyes. " _You_ wouldn't marry her, or would you?"

Arthur choked, although he hadn't so much as touched his wine, and felt himself flush as he stifled a brief coughing fit into his fist. Leon quickly raised his goblet to his mouth as though to hide a smile, although Gwaine didn't even bother to disguise his grin. But Lancelot was studying the table like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen, and Merlin didn't look particularly amused either, his gaze darting from Erik to Arthur and back again.

"No," Arthur replied at last, clearing his throat uncomfortably but forcing himself to meet Erik's eyes nonetheless. "No, I— I doubt that would be a good idea."

Erik shrugged, mercifully not offended, and even took a long drink of his wine. Arthur let out a relieved sigh, and pretended not to notice that Lancelot's shoulders looked somewhat slumped. They were out on a quest to catch the culprit who was killing off Camelot's allies, for heaven's sake, and he didn't want to think about _anything_ related to marriage now.

But for now, Arthur tried to swallow his discomfort and took a deep breath, well aware that it fell to him to explain that Ragnelle's plan might not work out. He couldn't really think of anything to say right then, though, and watched mutely when Erik lowered his goblet, his expression gone thoughtful again.

"I'm worried about her," he said softly, almost reluctantly. "She _can_ take care of herself, but I'm just afraid that some sleazy git will get her to marry him by promising that he'll provide for me until I'm of age."

Arthur sighed, watching the troubled frown on Erik's face, and thought that it made him look older in a way, and suddenly his mouth was moving on its own accord. "We'll look for her," he heard himself say, and Erik's head shot up, eyes widening in surprise as he stared at Arthur. "We're going to be traveling around these parts for a while, and we can keep an eye out for her, tell her to go back home."

A short glance around the table confirmed that they all agreed at least on that. Lancelot was meeting his gaze squarely, and Leon had that determined look on his face that meant that he was going to do his best to bring the woman back home, even if they'd only known her brother for a few hours. He studiously skimmed Merlin, knowing that he was wearing that half-smile that always settled as a weird heated thing in his gut, and looked at Gwaine just in time to see him roll his eyes in Merlin's general direction.

"You would really do that?" Erik asked, tentatively, like he couldn't quite believe what Arthur had said. To Arthur's relief, he actually sounded as young as he was again, in contrast to the weary, worried look from before. He looked hopeful as well, in a way that made Arthur think that it had been a long time since he'd last had a reason to hope for anything.

He didn't comment on it, though, and nodded instead. "Of course," he replied, for lack of something more reassuring to say, but it seemed to be enough. Erik relaxed ever so slightly, in a way that made Arthur wonder about the fact that he hadn't noticed how tense the boy had been until then. It had been more of an underlying tension that one didn't notice until it was gone, but now that Erik's shoulders were slumping slightly, Arthur realized how wound up he'd been.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet this time in a futile attempt to disguise his relief. His smile, when it came, was tentative at best, but Arthur still smiled back. Leon and Lancelot exchanged a short glance; Arthur had the feeling that Merlin was still looking at him, although he adamantly refused to turn his head. Gwaine raised his goblet to Erik and downed the last of his wine, and the boy's smile widened into a grin.

 

 

Erik tried to give Arthur his bed when they settled down for the night, but Arthur refused adamantly until the boy gave up, more out of tiredness than real surrender. It had been quite an eventful day for a boy of fourteen who had only recently lost his father and whose sister was heaven knew where trying to get married, and Arthur didn't want to put him out of his bed.

He insisted that a bedroll on the floor would be more than convenient, and when that failed to convince Erik, Arthur declared that a real knight shared the fate of his companions, in battle or otherwise. He would have felt a bit silly saying that even without Gwaine's snort from the other side of the room, but Erik finally relented after that.

But even when the candles had been blown out and the soft snores of his fellow knights echoed through the room, Arthur found himself curiously unable to find rest. He was tired, a fatigued longing for rest pulling on his thoughts and weighing down his limbs, but no matter how he tossed and turned in his bedroll, he couldn't fall asleep. Gwaine had drooped off almost as soon as he'd lain down—Arthur guessed that he would wake up with a number of bruises the next day, judging from how often Gryngolet had had him bump into sturdy leaf-laden branches on their way through the forest. Lancelot and Merlin were both lying on their stomachs, but Lancelot's hand was tucked underneath his bedroll, and Arthur knew that he was holding on to a hidden knife in his sleep. Leon was more obvious about being on his guard even here, in the relative safety of the hunting lodge—a long dagger was lying next to him in plain sight.

At last Arthur gave up and rose from his bedroll, carefully making his way through the sleeping men and sat down in one of the well-worn armchairs in front of the fireplace. Maybe the warmth would relax him enough for him to fall asleep. He fed a new log into the fire and leaned back, listening to the crackling pops of the moisture being drawn out of the wood. It was surprisingly quiet, the nocturnal sounds of the forest blocked out by the hut's walls. The trees outside stood so thick that no moonlight was filtering in through the windows, but the fire illuminated the room enough for Arthur to make out the dim shapes of furniture.

Not for the first time, he found his thoughts drifting towards Camelot. It had only been two weeks since they had left, and rationally, Arthur knew that it was useless to wonder how his people were faring in his absence. But it was like a thorn, lodged so deeply within his flesh that he couldn't pull it out, no matter how often he sternly called his thoughts to order and told them to stop circling back to his home.

There was nothing he could _do_ from here, after all, no matter how much he wished he knew what was going on in Camelot. He could only investigate the murders like the king had told him to, and hope to find the kingdom exactly how he'd left it when the matter would finally be cleared up. No matter how often his mind went down that particular path, the thought always sent a stab of nostalgia through him, sharp and acute like the unexpected bite of a knife in his gut. He knew that he would never again leave Camelot with the reassuring knowledge that Morgana was there to balance out his father's often rash decisions.

It felt inappropriate somehow that the only times he found himself truly _missing_ Morgana was in situations like these, when he used to be able to count on her to keep a discreet eye on the kingdom while he was gone. On the other hand, he mused, familiar bitterness welling up with the thought, he probably shouldn't have counted on Morgana quite that often in hindsight. Maybe things would have gone differently if he'd just _suspected_ something earlier, and in a way it seemed ironic that it had been Morgana herself who'd always called him unobservant.

He shook his head to dispel the thought, settling a little deeper into the surprisingly comfortable chair to watch the dancing flames in the fireplace. Heat was suffusing his bones, slowly soaking into his muscles, and he wondered, with a sudden, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, how often the flames of pyres had lit up the courtyard during the past two weeks. During the past few months, Arthur had mostly managed to convince his father not to execute everybody he deemed guilty of sorcery, but he wasn't there to stay the king's hand now.

Arthur hoped that his father was at least susceptible to Gaius' gently persuasive influence, if not to the advice of his courtiers. He was probably awake now too, if the physician hadn't managed to sneak enough of a sleeping potion into the wine to calm the king's mind. Arthur swallowed, remembering the uncounted times he'd seen his father wander through the deserted corridors at night, at a slow pace that had seemed aimless until Arthur had found him outside Morgana's chambers one night. Even Arthur didn't know where his father had put the key when the door had been locked, but he knew that the rooms beyond had been left unchanged as if in silent wait as dust collected on the ornately carved furniture.

He rubbed a tired hand across his eyes, annoyed with the inconveniently saddening turn his thoughts had taken. It was no use musing about his father now, since Arthur wasn't there to keep an eye on him, as much as he hated to even think that. No matter how often he'd taken charge and led his men into battle when his father hadn't been able, Arthur was still a prince and Uther was a king. And sometimes it struck him as profoundly unfair that he should be forced to meddle with the courtiers behind his father's back to keep him as calm and content as possible even in his troubled state of mind.

The whispers of madness had been silenced wherever Arthur heard them, perhaps more harshly than necessary, but they still traveled, and Arthur would have needed to be blind not to see the way the people looked to him for advice and aid, instead of to their king. It had been surprising even to himself how quickly he had come to accept that, but he wished they'd be a bit more subtle. His father was oddly absent-minded at times, and sometimes outright frantic in his suspicions of everyone plotting a conspiracy behind his back. But his mind was still sharp, and he had a way of noticing things that went past most people, and Arthur didn't want him to lie awake at night wondering why the eyes of the peasants that brought their concerns before his throne frequently darted to his son.

There was a rustle of cloth behind him, but Arthur ignored the sound, keeping his gaze fixed on the fire until Merlin suddenly appeared next to him, flickering a brief, cautious glance at him before he sat down in the other armchair. His hair was utterly disheveled, having grown a bit longer again since Morgana's betrayal, and Arthur concluded silently that Merlin hadn't had any luck falling asleep either.

Before, Merlin might have looked over at him with a sly smile, making some comment about Arthur hurting his head by thinking so hard, and Arthur would have volleyed back some retort about how _Merlin_ was certainly speaking from his own experience. Maybe they would have continued like that, trading casual insults for a while, until Merlin grew tired of trying to goad him and flat-out asked what was keeping him awake. And Arthur would have told him, because with Merlin, there had never been any need to choose his words carefully. He would have been free to say that he felt like he'd been picking his way through a thorny undergrowth ever since Morgana's betrayal, and that he hated the thought of being stuck roaming the Northern Plains while his father needed him.

He couldn't do that now, though, and Arthur frowned at the turn his thoughts had taken, wondering perhaps for the first time when he'd started to think of Merlin in terms of before and after his confession. It seemed ridiculous that his mind should split Merlin up into two different people, because deep down Arthur knew that he wasn't, not really. Even now, Merlin looked like he always had, staring into the fire as though he was just as deep in thought as Arthur. His posture was a bit more tense than Arthur was used to, and maybe he looked like he was taking great care not to glance at the prince from the corner of his eye, but he was still _Merlin_.

It didn't _feel_ different either. Regardless of Merlin's presence, Arthur was still relaxed, the tension in him not unwound, but certainly loosened by the warmth of the fire and the late hour. He tried to think to himself, very carefully, _I am sitting next to a sorcerer while my men are asleep in the same room_ , but even that didn't work like he thought it should. It was just like that moment when Merlin had found him in the lake and Arthur had caught himself thinking of how he'd had his back to Merlin the entire time. It felt _wrong_.

Rubbing a hand across his forehead didn't chase the thought away, regardless of how much Arthur wanted it gone, and he sighed, irritated with himself. But no matter from which angle he examined it, he found himself simply not wanting to divide Merlin in two—and maybe, just maybe, not wanting to divide the two of _them_ either, although that was precisely what he'd been doing these past few months.

When Merlin spoke, Arthur almost flinched in surprise, but the words were still somewhat reassuring because at least now he knew that Merlin hadn't guessed at his thoughts. "Do you think it was really the Green Knight who killed these noblemen?" he asked, his voice hesitant, as though he expected to be rebuffed any moment.

Arthur found himself looking over at him, but immediately jerked his gaze back to the flames when it was met squarely by blue eyes that seemed oddly dark in the dim light. "Of course," he replied, his voice hoarse with disuse, and cleared his throat. He'd meant the words to be scathing, but somehow they just came out sounding pensive. "Who else would it be?"

Merlin sighed, blowing out a long, slow breath through his nose, and Arthur dared another glance at him because he could see that Merlin's eyes were once again fixed on the fire. He looked sad and a bit weary, like that was just the answer he had seen coming, although he had hoped for something else. A short, fleeting flare of anger surged through Arthur at the sight, and he gritted his teeth to keep more words from tumbling out—if Merlin truly expected him not to be suspicious of the man who had spent the past few months systematically murdering Camelot's potential allies, he was in for a disappointment.

"I don't know," Merlin replied at last. He shrugged one shoulder and looked down for a moment, his fingers absently toying with a loose threat at the cuff of his sleeve. "I just don't think he's evil."

"Of course _you_ don't," Arthur said, more harshly than he'd wanted to, but maybe Merlin knew that, because he didn't even flinch. He just glanced at Arthur, his eyes briefly reflecting the flickering light, and Arthur found his gaze caught and held, helpless to glance away for a long, silent moment.

The flames were painting strange shadows on Merlin's features, and for some reason Arthur found himself remembering those few seconds next to Sir Ricbert's house, although Merlin just looked tired and a bit expectant now, rather than lit up from the inside with a power that Arthur couldn't begin to comprehend. There was something about the dim light that made him look older, something in the sooty sweep of dark lashes on his cheeks when he blinked once, slowly, as though he feared to shatter the moment even with that tiny movement.

A strange fissure of heat curled through Arthur at the sight of the shadowed hollows of Merlin's collarbones, just barely peeking out from the neckline of his tunic, like the fire's warmth had finally reached the last hidden place within. Arthur took a deep breath, heedless of the tight lump of heated tension in his gut. He _wanted_ to look away, to turn his gaze back to the flickering safety of the fire, but although Merlin's eyes hadn't flashed gold with anything but the light of the flames, he wasn't all that surprised to find that he couldn't.

"The people are afraid," he found himself saying instead, almost belligerently, inviting objection. Even now, there was no need to explain what he meant, if the flash of understanding in Merlin's eyes was anything to go by.

Merlin cocked his head, clearly taking his time to think about the words, and if Arthur hadn't been looking so closely, he would have missed the brief shadow that flickered across Merlin's expression. He must have heard the accusing note in Arthur's tone, but Merlin's voice was steady when he said, with quiet finality, "The people in Ealdor were afraid too, and Kanen's men didn't have magic."

Arthur blinked, thrown for a loop by the words, but the image still rose to the front of his mind—it seemed so long ago now, although it had barely been three years since then. He was thoroughly unprepared for the surge of nostalgia that swept through him at the memory of soldiers being drawn out of hiding from the hearts of farmers, and he took a deep breath, choking down the tide of emotion. Merlin watched him carefully, assessing his reaction with only a flicker of uncertainty in his expression—he looked like he wanted to say something more—something like, _'it's the user who's evil or good, not the magic,'_ and Arthur was unaccountably grateful when he didn't.

The silence stretched, only disrupted by the crackle of the fire, and Merlin shifted a little in his seat.   
His eyes were pleading, like his face wasn't—like he hadn't been since the day he'd told Arthur. He'd never tried to talk to Arthur about it again, as though all the stubborn vehemence that Arthur had gotten so used to had been drained out of him that evening. That thought had unsettled Arthur far more than he'd ever admit, but he had told himself that he appreciated the quiet diligence with which Merlin completed his chores and never so much as initiated conversation. Everything had gone fragile between them, too fragile for the words that Arthur felt hovering just out of reach in his mind. Up until now, it had never occurred to him that maybe it would be better to break it, shatter what little had been left intact by Merlin's confession, and maybe, just maybe rebuild it again.

A log shifted in the fire, bursting into glowing pieces of smoldering wood with a shower of sparks that rushed up into the chimney. Arthur didn't reply to Merlin's statement, but he still saw a glimmer of hope in Merlin's gaze, as if silence was far more than he'd bargained for when he had dug up the memory of Ealdor within Arthur's mind.

Arthur rose abruptly, his legs protesting the quick movement with a twinge. He felt cold when he turned away from the fire after having been warmed by the flames for so long, but he still stopped next to Merlin's chair, although Merlin didn't so much as glance at him, choosing to gaze into the fire instead.

He just looked down at Merlin's bowed head for a moment, at the messy tangle of his hair and the tips of his ears, gone red with warmth and maybe something more. This time, he didn't even try to hold the words in, and his voice was oddly rough when he said, without any preamble, "You can't expect me to just go on like nothing happened."

When Merlin looked up, his eyes were clear, devoid of the distant, well-concealed pain that Arthur had grown so used to seeing. "I don't," he replied, his voice quiet but sincere. "I never did."

Arthur found himself nodding, if not in agreement, at least in acknowledgement. Merlin didn't smile, but Arthur caught the minute softening of his gaze when he averted his eyes back to the fire, and somehow, it was enough. He picked his way through the sleeping forms of his knights and settled down in his bedroll, cold to the touch in contrast to the stifling warmth at the fireplace.

Later, he wondered if it might have been only a dream. But just before his eyelids drooped shut an indeterminate amount of time later, he saw Merlin lean forward, shifting closer to the fireplace with a thoughtful, serene expression on his features. He stretched out his hand with dreamlike slowness, and Arthur didn't understand the single word he whispered, but the flames suddenly flared, licking up into the sooty darkness of the chimney as though coaxed to life by Merlin's voice. Sparks were left behind when the fire slowly simmered back down, sparks that didn't disintegrate but _shifted_ , floating through the air above the fire to form an all too familiar shape.

He didn't know how long he lay there, suspended in a drowsy state between sleeping and waking, and watched his coat of arms float above the flames, more golden and alive in the glimmering sparks than he had ever seen it embroidered on his clothes. Merlin watched the dragon too, until the glow of the embers died away, and Arthur fell asleep with the image of Merlin's small, oddly soft smile behind his eyelids, burnished into his mind by the restless dance of the flames.


	4. The Challenge

Initially, Merlin had almost protested when he'd been handed the reins of the packhorse on the day they'd left Camelot—he'd thought that he would have enough trouble steering _one_ horse through the woods, let alone two. But to his own surprise, the packhorse was even more calm and obedient than the horse he'd been given by the stablehand that morning. It followed him wherever he led it, never walking all over him like Gryngolet did with Gwaine, although Merlin would have been far less capable of dealing with a stubborn horse. It faithfully nibbled on Merlin's tunic whenever he strapped their baggage onto its back, warming his chilled fingers in the morning when it nosed at his hands in search of treats.

All in all, Merlin thought that the packhorse had held up admirably during the two and a half weeks they'd been away from Camelot, carrying their luggage through rain and sunshine alike. But on the way to Maneshale, when Merlin had just begun to wonder if this blasted impenetrable _thicket_ of a forest would ever end, there was a crack as the reins he'd tied to his saddle were suddenly pulled tight, and a startled snort from behind him.

Startled out of his unforgiving thoughts towards nature, Merlin reined in his horse and looked back over his shoulder. The packhorse was stumbling, dark eyes widened in shock as it fought not to fall under its load and whatever had caused its hooves to slip in the first place. It staggered to the side, almost straight into a tree, and finally stood still, flanks heaving with quick breaths.

Merlin was dismounting before he'd quite told his legs to move, and ended up half-sprawled on the ground even as he called out for the others to stop. He scrambled over to the horse, heedless of the thorns catching at his trousers and the branches that whipped into his face, and put a calming hand on its neck, relieved when it didn't shy away from his touch. The undergrowth crackled and rustled as the others rode back, forming as much of a half-circle around Merlin as the trees allowed.

"Is it the shoe?" Leon asked, but Merlin shook his head absently even as he bent over and urged the horse to lift its leg for him. The hoof looked fine, the shoe gleaming a little in the light that trickled in through the treetops, and still firmly in place, as far as Merlin could tell. There was nothing stuck to the sole either, and Merlin put the leg back down with a reassuring pat to the horse's shoulder.

Nobody spoke as he checked each hoof, but Merlin didn't need to see the others' faces to guess at their anxious expressions. Sure, they had Gaius' bag with ointments and herbs, but a broken foreleg was difficult to treat in the warmth and safety of Camelot's stables; out here in the forest, it would be a death sentence. They had enough supplies to treat a sprain, but even that would slow them down considerably.

He untied the reins from the saddle and urged the packhorse forward with a gentle pull on its bridle, making it walk a few paces before turning back around. It was definitely favoring a foreleg, although Merlin couldn't quite tell which one; he stopped and bent down again, carefully running his hands over the soft fur down to the left hoof.

"There's lots of rabbit holes around here," Gwaine said eventually; Merlin looked up at him for a moment and saw his eyes scanning the ground for the tell-tale dents in the grass. "It probably stepped into one."

Merlin nodded, feeling a little stupid as he touched the horse's right leg, trying to feel for bumps or swollen, heated patches—he wasn't that knowledgeable a horseman, but he thought the right leg felt a little warmer, and although the horse didn't shy from his touch, it shifted a little like it wanted to pull away. "It's probably just a sprained muscle," he stated as he straightened back up, smiling slightly at the collective sigh of relief that echoed around the clearing.

"You can go ahead while I make a poultice," Merlin said as he moved to loosen the straps that tied the luggage to the horse's back. It was still afternoon, although the light was beginning to dim, and he guessed that they were already pretty close to the next village. "I'll meet up with you in Maneshale."

Arthur gave him a look of fundamental doubt of his navigational skills, and Merlin tried not to feel offended—they'd been following a visible trail all day, and it wasn't particularly reassuring that Arthur didn't deem him intelligent enough to follow it to Maneshale.

But he nodded after a moment, probably because he realized that if Merlin wasn't there to put away their luggage, Arthur wouldn't be forced into sharing a room with him. Merlin carefully kept his expression blank and shoved the thought away, a little impatiently, because now was not the time to dwell on things he had no idea how to change anyway.

With a last, assessing glance at Merlin and the horse, Arthur guided Llamrei back on the trail with a nudge of his heels. But Merlin still saw his features harden almost imperceptibly as his gaze skimmed over Gwaine and Leon and finally landed on Lancelot, who was watching Merlin with a slightly worried expression.

Merlin almost rolled his eyes, but reined in the urge just in time—it wasn't Lancelot's fault that Arthur's disparaging view of Merlin's sense of direction appeared to be catching. He really didn't know what their problem was—the trail would lead him straight to Maneshale by nightfall, and even the weather was cooperating. With Beltane just a few days away, spring was slowly starting to blend into early summer, and even though the sun had been obscured by a white sheet of clouds all day, it was still warm.

"Lancelot, stay back and help Merlin," Arthur ordered after a brief silence, and it could just have been Merlin's imagination, but the words sounded... odd, for lack of a better word. Arthur's voice was steady as always, but there was an undefinable undercurrent in his tone, something sharp and barbed that hinted at steel.

"Yes, sire," Lancelot said calmly, gracefully sliding off of his horse's back. He didn't seem to have noticed anything, because he smiled at Merlin as Arthur urged Llamrei forward and the others followed. Branches and twigs snapped and cracked as the horses trudged back on the trail, and Gwaine called for them to hurry up if they didn't want all the wine to be gone by the time they made it to whatever tavern they'd spend the night in.

Merlin rolled his eyes and turned back to the packhorse, pulling the bag that Gaius had given him from the packhorse's back. It occurred to him that this was the first time he so much as touched it, and found himself briefly grateful for the fact that there had been no need for any of Gaius' medicines until now. On the other hand, the lack of bandits seemed somewhat suspicious. It was odd that they were used to being attacked even within Camelot's borders, but hadn't seen so much as a fellow traveler now that they had ventured into the supposedly lawless area of the Northern Plains.

Lancelot had knelt down to touch the horse's legs like Merlin had done before, and he found himself grateful to have someone by his side who knew more about horses than he did—sure enough, it only took Lancelot a soft brush of his hands to discern the injury. "It's the right foreleg," he said, looking up at Merlin with obvious relief. "Feels like a sprain, like you said."

Merlin opened the bag carefully, mindful of the glass jars and earthen pots inside. He took out one of the rolls of clean white fabric, putting it aside as he removed the thick, soft cloth that Gaius had put over the jars to protect them from the daily wear and tear of traveling. The jars were labeled in Gaius' neat script, and it only took Merlin a second to select the appropriate ointment.

He scooted over to where Lancelot had stood up and gripped the packhorse's bridle, but he needn't have bothered—the horse didn't so much as flinch when Merlin touched its leg again. He felt the slightly heated patch of fur more clearly now, but it wasn't big or even particularly hot, and with a bit of rest and luck, the horse would be fine again within a few days.

As he worked in silence, his mind started to drift with the monotony of his movements—he had never bandaged a horse's leg before, but he had lost count of the times he'd done this for Arthur, worked healing salve into pulled muscles with careful fingers after tournaments and sometimes after training. Once again, he found himself grateful that their encounter with Sir Gromer's son hadn't escalated into a duel—he was sure that Arthur wouldn't have let Merlin tend to him like he had used to after a fight anyway.

They had left Erik at the hunting lodge a couple of days ago, after Arthur had dissuaded him from coming with them—Erik had wanted to come along to help them to look for his sister, but Arthur had stood firm by his resolve to leave the boy in the relative safety close to Torpelei. Apparently Erik knew when he was fighting a losing battle, because he had finally relented, although he had pressed more field rations on them to stock up their dwindling supplies.

"Don't pull any more dangerous stunts like challenging random knights to duels," Arthur had told him when they'd gotten ready to leave, giving the boy a stern look from his higher seat on Llamrei's back. "You're no use to your sister dead."

Erik had nodded mulishly, although he didn't protest. The look in his eyes spoke volumes of how badly he still wanted to go with them, and Merlin suspected that he had only agreed to stay at Torpelei because he couldn't bring himself to ignore a direct order from the crown prince of Camelot.

"And hunting to provide for yourself is all well and good," Arthur continued after a moment, somewhat uncomfortably, like he didn't really want to say what he was about to tell him, but found himself doing it anyway since no one else would. "But you might also have to work."

Merlin still remembered how Erik had scrunched up his nose at that, like the very idea was distasteful to him. "I certainly won't be slaving away for those ungrateful pigs down in the village," Erik said, and Merlin had found himself suppressing a smile, quickly turning away to hide his expression. The boy was clearly just parroting back what he had been told all his life—he wasn't a bad person by any means, he was just spoiled, and too self-righteous in his defense of his dead father.

"Maybe they're not all ungrateful pigs," Arthur replied patiently. "You could prove to them that you're just as worthy a lord as your father was."

Erik had blinked up at him, the disgusted look sliding off his face to give way to surprise and a tentative kind of hope. This time, Merlin couldn't quite tamper down his grin—Arthur obviously recognized Erik's arrogance as born of ignorance, and knew how to handle it, since he'd been a little like him not too long ago. He hadn't missed how the boy perked up each time someone so much as mentioned chivalry, since he seemed to want to be a knight more than anything, and Merlin was mildly surprised at Arthur's patience as he used the chivalric code to make Erik think about his views.

As if on cue, Lancelot spoke, startling Merlin out of his thoughts although his voice was quiet and tentative, like he wasn't quite sure if he was overstepping his boundaries with the words. "So how are things with Arthur?"

Merlin glanced up at him, not at all surprised to find Lancelot looking into the trees, carefully avoiding Merlin's gaze—apparently he wanted to give him the chance to pretend he hadn't heard. He smiled a little and looked back down, scooping a generous amount of salve out of the jar as the sharp scent of juniper mixed with rosemary and thyme filled the air.

"I don't know," he replied at last, carefully lathering the sprain with ointment. The horse gently bumped its nose into his shoulders as though in gratitude. "Every time I think we've made some progress, he just... takes a step back." His own words made him think back to the night at the hunting lodge, to the conversation that he still wasn't sure how to interpret—maybe it signaled some progress, but maybe Merlin's words had just hardened the conviction in Arthur's mind that any and all magic was evil.

Lancelot's sigh sounded sympathetic, and Merlin risked another glance up at him. "Arthur seems to be stepping back from a lot of things lately," he said, somewhat cryptically, although he looked surprised when he saw Merlin's confused frown. "What, you don't... know?"

Merlin shook his head, completely nonplussed as to what he was talking about, and Lancelot briefly glanced away into the trees again, surprised and somewhat dismayed. Regret flickered across his tanned features, like he wished he could take back what he'd said, but after a moment he took a deep breath.

"Gwen told me that Arthur—," he began in a rush, although he cut himself off and gestured vaguely at the trees in search of a respectful, appropriate way of putting this into words, "well, that he— broke it off, their... relationship. He ended it."

Thoroughly baffled, Merlin just blinked up at Lancelot for a long moment, greasy fingers stilling on the horse's leg before he found his voice. "What?"

Lancelot shrugged, absently toying with the horse's reins, looking anywhere but at Merlin—discomfort was etched into every line of his face, and Merlin suddenly realized that Lancelot had thought he knew, and that he now felt like he'd divulged the prince's secret. Merlin didn't see how telling him about this was a breach of Arthur's trust, since Arthur obviously hadn't ordered Gwen not to tell anyone, but he knew Lancelot's sense of honor.

"Apparently the prince told her that he didn't think his feelings for her had a... a future," Lancelot said, softly now, like he'd figured that he could as well tell Merlin the rest of it, "and that it would be unfair to keep her from finding someone with whom she, at least, could have that future."

Merlin shook his head, struggling to integrate that piece of information into the picture in his mind. Sure, he had seen the polite distance they'd been keeping from each other during the past few months, but he never would have thought that Arthur had ended their relationship. He had known, at least, that Arthur and Gwen had drifted apart in the time since Morgana's betrayal. Arthur had been busy overseeing the repairs that needed to be made, all the while running himself ragged trying to keep his father from going mad. Neither Arthur nor Gwen had ever talked to Merlin about it, not even before his confession to Arthur, but Merlin had thought that they'd come to him in their own time if they thought he could offer some advice.

"When was that?" he asked, staring dumbly up at Lancelot, who looked uneasier by the second. He didn't seem to have anticipated the blank shock that those news had wiped across Merlin's mind, and he glanced into the trees once more as though searching for some sort of support.

"About a week after the feast," he replied, shifting his weight and looking back at Merlin, "after— you know."

"I do know," Merlin assured him, his mind flashing back to the Green Knight for the briefest second, and Lancelot sighed a little into the ensuing silence, like he was relieved that that part of the conversation was over.

Merlin reached for a soft, thick piece of fabric from Gaius' bag, carefully wrapping it around the ointment on the horse's leg to provide some padding underneath the bandage. His mind was still reeling, and a part of him felt oddly desensitized, like it had shut down to protect itself from the hurt that was sure to follow on the heels of Lancelot's words. But it was only reasonable, Merlin thought numbly—he had revealed his magic to Arthur, and since that had lost him any and all trust the prince had ever put in him, it was just logical that he hadn't told him about the end of his and Gwen's relationship. Arthur had gone back to how he'd been when Merlin had first become his manservant, guarding his secrets jealously.

The bandage was cool and soft between his fingers, and Merlin concentrated on wrapping it around the padding, not too loosely, but also not tightly enough to cut off circulation. He reined in his thoughts, keeping them on the question of whether they would indeed reach Maneshale by nightfall with the slow walk they would have to keep up due to the packhorse's injury. Lancelot's gaze was a bit too sympathetic and understanding when Merlin tied the bandage and straightened up, though, so he probably hadn't quite succeeded in keeping his features blank.

But Merlin didn't feel like talking about it just then, and so he just led the packhorse over to where his own horse was waiting ever-patiently, munching on a patch of grass. The packhorse's gait was still uneven, but not as much as before, and it didn't seem to be in all that much pain; as long as no one urged it to go faster, the sprain would heal within a few days.

Lancelot stayed mercifully silent as he helped Merlin divide the packhorse's load evenly between the three horses, and they mounted up into their saddles again, setting off towards Maneshale at a slow walk. Merlin kept his gaze on the ground, save for when he dodged random tree branches that grew in his path, but to his relief, he saw no further rabbit holes like the one the packhorse had most likely stepped into. The forest was a cacophony of rustling leaves and crackling undergrowth around them, the birds belting out their songs as if to hold off the growing late afternoon twilight. The trail wasn't broad enough for them to ride side by side, but it wasn't quite as overgrown as it had used to be around Torpelei.

"Don't you think it's strange, though?" Lancelot said eventually, turning slightly in his saddle to look at Merlin over his shoulder. The words were tentative, like he had been thinking about them for a while but wasn't quite sure how Merlin would react. "These murders, I mean—there just doesn't seem to be a reason behind them."

Merlin hummed noncommittally, startled out of his scattered thoughts by the seemingly random question. It sounded like Lancelot was trying to take Merlin's mind off of Arthur and Gwen, and he smiled even as his thoughts drifted back to the third murdered nobleman they had seen just the other day. Well, they hadn't seen the corpse itself, since it had long since been buried, but they had passed through the village, a small settlement around the nobleman's manor farm called Watenhale.

They'd asked their questions as usual, and the villagers had answered readily enough, divulging roughly the same story that they had heard twice already. A stranger clad all in green had asked for food and shelter for the night, and a week later their lord had been found dead, the manor shrouded in ivy, with the servants having ran off as the twines started to grow. At least there had been no disappeared family this time—the nobleman, one Sir Gilbert de Venables, had lived alone.

"What do you mean?" he asked at last, when the silence had stretched for a while. As carefully as he'd been trying to keep his mind from straying towards Arthur, it was only with slight reluctance that he managed to disengage his thoughts now and focus on the matter at hand. But it was as good a distraction as anything, and he _had_ been thinking about the whole thing as well—maybe it would clear his mind to get a second opinion.

"If it's really the Green Knight who's been killing all these people," Lancelot began, like he'd just been waiting for Merlin to give him a cue to go on, "I don't understand why he deviates from his own pattern."

Merlin frowned, not quite comprehending what he was getting at, and Lancelot turned towards him again, putting one hand on the back of his saddle to steady himself, although his horse kept trudging along the trail, unimpressed by the unusual shift of its rider's weight.

"Well, all three of the dead noblemen we've checked so far were found in the woods," he continued, and Merlin nodded his agreement, since that much was obvious. "But back when he came to Camelot, the Green Knight said he'd meet his opponent at the Green Chapel, wherever _that_ may be. And according to Erik, he also said as much to Sir Gromer Somer Joure."

"So why _were_ they found in the woods?" Merlin muttered, not really meaning it as a question—Lancelot had a point, now that he stopped to think about it. He had never heard of a place called the Green Chapel, not in Camelot or anywhere else, but it had seemed important to the Green Knight that whoever rose to his challenge met him there to hold up his end of the bargain. But apparently he had intercepted each of the noblemen who tried to meet him there, choosing to deal out the returning blow near their homes instead.

"Maybe he grew tired of waiting for them," Merlin ventured, for lack of anything more useful to say. "Or he wanted the bodies to be found quickly."

Lancelot's eyes widened, and he leaned closer to him, shifting most of his weight to the back of the saddle, but although Merlin gave him a nervous look, his seat still seemed secure. "Do you think it was a ploy to lure us here?"

"I have no idea," Merlin admitted, although he hadn't examined the matter from that angle yet—maybe it was true, but even if it was, Merlin couldn't shake the stubborn feeling that there was no evil lying in wait for them. It was more like clues left by a calculating mind that hoped that someone would put the pieces together and see the whole picture that they formed.

"I just know that he has magic of some kind," he said, more to himself than to Lancelot, although he was clearly still listening, staring at Merlin intently like he was remembering how Merlin had touched the leaves of ivy at their first stop.

"I don't think he's a sorcerer, but there's just... something magical about him," he finished somewhat lamely. "I felt it in the room when he came to Camelot, and then again near the ivy—it's like a beacon of power." He hovered for a moment, and finally shut his mouth when he realized that there was no way to put into words how it had felt, or at least none that Lancelot would understand.

Lancelot nodded nonetheless, in acknowledgement if not in understanding, but his tone was still careful when he asked, "Do you know what Arthur thinks about all this?"

"No," Merlin said, deflating a little at the words, although Lancelot followed them up with an apologetic glance. He suddenly felt guilty, like it hadn't been his place to discuss these things with Lancelot when he really wanted to be talking about them with Arthur. But Arthur didn't seem ready to discuss anything even remotely related to magic just yet, even if it was just the Green Knight. Merlin still remembered the scorn in Arthur's tone back at the hunting lodge, when he'd said that of course Merlin wouldn't believe the man to be evil.

Still, he knew he'd feel a lot better if only he could _talk_ to Arthur about this whole mess, just to make it a bit less confusing. As far away from Camelot as they were, he didn't even have Gaius to ask for advice—but he still wished for someone to help him sort out the confusing tangle with some fresh bits of information. Mysteries were only fun to work out if he was given some sort of lead to work with, and on second thought, they were not all that much fun if people ended up dead throughout.

"Well," Lancelot said, clearing his throat, and mustered up a smile to chase away the discomfort in the air. "We'd better hurry, or Gwaine will have depleted the entire village's wine stock by the time we get there."

Merlin snorted in surprised amusement at the words, grateful for the momentary reprieve too—he was relieved that Lancelot didn't press the subject of Arthur upon him since Merlin obviously didn't quite want to talk about it. After all, Lancelot had a point—Gwaine _would_ buy himself a drink first and foremost when he reached Maneshale, and if he found someone to play dice with as well, the tavern would be in ruins before long.

He glanced back at the packhorse, satisfied to find it trudging along faithfully without any sign of pain save for a slight limp. Dusk was falling, slowly but surely, and the shapes of the trees had gone blurry and indistinct around them as the sun dipped towards the horizon, out of sight behind a sheet of clouds. The thought of taverns made his stomach rumble. It had been quite long since they'd stopped for lunch, and Merlin was already looking forward to the meal Arthur would order for them at the tavern, not to mention a comfortable bed to sleep in. The forest was clearing in front of them, the trees thinning to let in more of the fading light, and he urged his horse into a slightly faster walk to catch up with Lancelot again.

 

 

"This is madness," Lancelot said from beside him, his voice subdued and just this side of vicious, and for once Gwaine found himself almost agreeing.

But he had appearances to keep up, after all, and so he just shrugged amicably, chewing on the long stem of grass he had ripped from the ground earlier. The ladder creaked warningly under him, and he put a hand on the whitewashed wall to steady himself—it would be ridiculous if he ended up falling just because of this quietly ongoing argument.

Lancelot gave him another branch of mountain ash when he held out his hand, and Gwaine took care to turn back to the wall before he rolled his eyes at his fellow knight's troubled expression. Sure, it did seem a bit... well... _impious_ of the villagers to use the gold that their recently deceased lord had left them to celebrate Beltane with much more pomp than became a small village, but what else were they supposed to do? It wasn't their fault that Maneshale had been under Sir Gilbert de Whatever's jurisdiction as well as Watenhale, and frankly, Gwaine didn't see how it was his problem that Lancelot's delicate sensibilities took offense.

As if on cue, Lancelot sighed, looking over at a small group of children running across the market square, their bare feet kicking up dust as their laughter echoed through the early afternoon air. A window opened at the inn they'd been staying at for the past few days, and a chambermaid collected the plush white blankets that had spent the morning airing out across the windowsill. The good weather had returned just in time for Beltane, and Gwaine found himself already looking forward to the binge in the evening.

"Their lord is dead," Lancelot said quietly, his gaze fixed on the chambermaid as though the whole thing was entirely her fault, "and they're not only disrupting their time of mourning, but they also use his money to celebrate Beltane?"

This time it was Gwaine who sighed, but he finished tying the branch of mountain ash to the rusty nail above the door before he turned to face the other knight. He liked Lancelot well enough, but sometimes the man's impeccable sense of honor aggravated him.

"Maybe they're secretly glad he's dead," he replied with as much patience as he could muster. "Maybe he exploited them just as much as that Gromer Somer Something did with the people of Torpelei."

Lancelot frowned a little, but Gwaine just looked back at him, unapologetic—it wasn't his fault that the lords of the Northern Plains had names that refused to stick to his short term memory. He turned back to the wall to admire his handiwork, letting Lancelot stew in his discontentment for a while. Branches of mountain ash framed the ancient wooden beam above the door, their small red berries gleaming in the sunlight. He'd nailed twigs of hawthorn to the beam as well, although the scent of the white blossoms made him sneeze.

All in all, the small house looked ready for the beginning of summer, and Gwaine carefully stepped off the creaky ladder, dusting his hands off on his trousers. Merlin, Arthur and Leon had helped decorate the inn earlier together with the villagers, although Merlin had fallen off his precarious perch on a first floor windowsill and landed in the dungheap at some point. Even Arthur had laughed, and Merlin had been ushered inside by the innkeeper's wife for a thorough scrubbing, although not before Gwaine had seen his surprised smile. Apparently he hadn't minded making a fool of himself if it drew a laugh out of Arthur that seemed almost like nothing had gone wrong between the two of them at all.

"Thank you, good sirs," a voice suddenly said from behind them; Gwaine turned around and saw the elderly lady of the house beaming up at him, her smile revealing a few missing teeth. Her hair might be white, but her blue eyes were sparkling with something like youthfulness as she looked up at the branches adorning her wall. "Our house has not looked this fine for Beltane in years."

"It was our pleasure, my lady," Gwaine replied gallantly, bowing low and discreetly spitting out the blade of grass in the process. "If there is anything else you need help with, just say the word."

"Well," the woman replied, turning her twinkling gaze to Gwaine as she stepped aside, gesturing to the open door in invitation. "I've heard you like a good drink, sir knight, and you must be thirsty after your hard work."

Gwaine just barely managed to keep a grimace of pain from showing on his face when Lancelot's heel came down on his toes, and gave the woman a winning smile as he courteously thanked her for the invitation. He had to duck to fit through the doorway, and although he had the distinct impression that Lancelot was rolling his eyes at him, he didn't look back.

Strengthened by a mug of finely brewed—though sadly nonalcoholic—sweet cider, Gwaine went back outside half an hour later, only to find the market square practically deserted. But all the houses were decorated with hawthorn and mountain ash, so he guessed that people had probably moved to the clearing in the forest where the evening's celebration would take place. He found the path easily enough, and settled in for a slow afternoon stroll under a canopy of leaves, directing his steps towards the river that they had crossed on their way to Maneshale.

He passed the field with their horses on the way, a large, fenced strip of land next to the river that had been largely cleared of trees. The horses were grazing in the shade of a small copse of birches, though, probably to escape the unexpected warmth of the day—well, save for the packhorse, which was kept in the stables behind the inn to rest its leg. The local blacksmith had taken a look at the sprained muscle and ordered at least a few days' rest if they didn't want the horse to end up with a permanent limp.

And then the villagers had basically commanded them to stay for Beltane—visitors were few and far between in these parts, and even Arthur had caved eventually under the collective enthusiasm that their arrival had spread through the village. He'd agreed to stay for as long as the horse's leg would take to heal, but he'd assured the villagers that they would help with the preparations whenever they could.

It wasn't the sort of thing Gwaine would have expected of Arthur when he'd first met him, but the longer he thought about it now, the more sense it made. Sure, Arthur could be an arrogant, stuck-up pig sometimes, and Gwaine had found himself wanting to beat some sense into his princely head more than once. But he hadn't felt like that in a long time now, at least not with the same intensity as before, during the days when Gwaine had still assured himself that the last thing he would ever do with his life was to dedicate his sword to the service of a nobleman.

And before his mind had gotten the chance to catch up with what was going on, he'd been kneeling on cold stone in an abandoned castle, feeling the cold touch of a sword on both shoulders as he was knighted by just the sort of nobleman he never would have bowed to before—a _prince_ , no less.

At first he'd thought that he would be out of Camelot and back on the road within a few weeks at most. He had spent so much time of his life as a wanderer that he didn't think himself capable of accepting a place like Camelot as his home anymore, and he'd taken to the early days of his knighthood with a sort of scientific interest, curious to see how long it would take for him to snap, pack up his bags and leave again.

But then he'd seen the destruction that Cenred's army had wrought upon Camelot, especially the lower town where the people were so poor that they couldn't afford even the basic repairs that their houses needed. Gwaine had been many things in his life—a vagabond, certainly, a bilk and a cardsharper, even a thief on occasion, but he was no true scoundrel. And to his own surprise, he found that he didn't mind being a knight all that much if it meant that he got to help peasants rebuild their homes.

That had been the beginning, and it had melted into a routine without him noticing. He still hadn't gotten used to people addressing him with "sir," but he'd found that it was not just a title that elevated him to the status he'd spent half his life despising—that of a nobleman at the beck and call of an uncaring lord shut away in a dusty castle. Arthur was different, and maybe Gwaine had subconsciously known that from the start without wanting to admit it at first. Arthur's hands were rough with calluses from his sword, rather than as soft as they would have been if he'd been the kind of person to spend his days inside. He went on hunts with them, he trained and fought and occasionally even drank with them. And if Gwaine was completely honest with himself, he knew why the people had started looking to Arthur for support and advice more and more during the past few months, why he inspired loyalty even in freshly knighted warriors who had known him only for a day.

Gwaine could tell that the prince's equilibrium had been off in the months since Cenred's attack, and after giving it some thought, he had accredited it to the king's deteriorating state of mind. Still, no matter how dark the bags under Arthur's eyes became or how often he just barely kept himself from losing his temper in the council chamber, he was always willing to listen to Leon's quiet, well-chosen words of advice, or to let himself be dragged to the tavern by Percival and Elyan if they thought he needed a break after a long day.

All in all, Arthur didn't fit into the neat little drawer in the back of Gwaine's mind that he usually stuffed noblemen into. At first that had irritated him, but by now he found it oddly compelling. Waiting to see what unusual things Arthur still had up his sleeve made it worth hanging around at Camelot under the mantle of knighthood, after all.

And when the elderly lady had asked if anyone wanted to help her hang up the customary sprigs of hawthorn and mountain ash on her house, Gwaine had found himself volunteering without second thought, even a split-second before Lancelot had done the same. He grimaced a little, ducking out from beneath the trees and into the hilly field that the Beltane celebrations would take place at in the evening. Clearly, the high and mighty air of knighthood and chivalry was rubbing off on him.

The clearing was large and obviously man-made, a wide uneven circle cut free of the forest. He could still hear the murmur of the river from here—it was barely five minutes' walk from the village, which explained the crowd of peasants that hurried to and fro around him. People kept milling in and out of the forest, carrying stacks of wood up the gentle slopes of the hills, and Gwaine spotted Merlin and Arthur a furlong away, helping the villagers to assemble the wood into huge bonfires that would burn all through the night.

Gwaine slowly walked towards them, accepting a bundle of thick branches from a random man on the way. He passed Leon, who was putting together a crudely cut, long wooden table with a few others. Judging from how red his thumbs were, he wasn't all that skilled with a hammer, but he still gave Gwaine a grin around his mouthful of nails, and the other farmers seemed thrilled and a bit awed to have a knight working in their midst.

He settled down at the bonfire next to the one Merlin and Arthur were working at, and did his best to mimic the farmers in sticking the branches into the stack of wood to stabilize it, all the while keeping a surreptitious eye on the other bonfire. Merlin was filling the gaps with brushwood and dried leaves; his expression was tense and a bit wary, and Gwaine could see that he was talking, although the murmur of his voice was too indistinct for him to make out the words. Arthur had his back to Gwaine, but judging from how harshly he was trying to ram a particularly thick branch into a too small gap, the conversation wasn't particularly relaxed on either end.

Gwaine carefully edged around his bonfire until he could see both of their faces, but as he came closer, he realized that he needn't have worried about being stealthy—he doubted they would have noticed even if he had moved to stand right next to them. Arthur's expression was shuttered and dark, a muscle in his cheek twitching with some nameless, barely contained emotion. It was probably anger, since that seemed to be all Arthur chose to throw at his manservant these days, no matter how hard Merlin tried to coax something else out of him. Gwaine felt an impotent flash of anger, but pushed it back down with some difficulty—all of his questions had been deflected, and he wasn't the type to pry, especially when his friend so clearly wanted to deal with this on his own.

He saw nothing wrong with eavesdropping, though, and he leaned forward over the bonfire, pretending to ponder where to put his branches.

"—who knows _why_ he's been seeking out those noblemen," Merlin was saying, defiantly, and Gwaine blinked in surprise when he realized that he was talking about the Green Knight; of all the things to argue about, he hadn't thought that _this_ would stir up another row between them. "As long as we don't _know_ , we can't very well judge him and just write him off as evil."

Gwaine frowned at that. Truth to be told, he hadn't really thought about the whole matter like that—he didn't care all that much that a few fat, lazy noblemen had thought they could use the challenge to prove that they were knights in more than name. Until now, it had never occurred to him to wonder whether the Green Knight was _evil_ in picking them off like that. A quick glance to where the tables were being assembled, and Gwaine saw that Leon had paused in the act of hammering a nail into the wood, seeming to listen intently as well although his back was turned to them.

Arthur hadn't replied to Merlin's words, but Merlin didn't look ready to give up yet. If anything, his expression hardened even more, forming a look of stubborn defiance that Gwaine hadn't seen in what felt like ages. There was a certain measure of helplessness underneath it, though, like Merlin was trying everything in his power to get Arthur to understand, and had no idea why he kept failing.

Still, he took a deep breath, and let it out in a rush when he said, "I talked to Lancelot, and—"

Arthur's head snapped up as though Merlin had struck him. For a moment he looked shocked, something indescribable flickering through his eyes before his features shuttered again and his eyes went quietly, dangerously dark. "Oh, you talked to _Lancelot_ ," he said, a black edge of sarcasm cutting through the words like a knife.

Merlin looked frustrated and helpless, thoroughly out of his depth as he spread his hands as though entreating Arthur to explain himself. But it seemed like this time, Merlin wasn't content to just back off and bear the brunt of the prince's rekindled anger, because his voice was surprisingly belligerent when he retorted, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," Arthur snapped back, his tone mocking, although his expression was far removed even from haughty amusement. "You tell me."

For a moment, Merlin just gaped at him, like he couldn't believe that a retort this immature could ever have fallen out of Arthur's mouth. Then he shook his head, flicking a brief glance up at the sky as though silently asking for support. "What are you even—" He raked his hands through his hair, a sudden movement of restless frustration. "Look, I just wanted to— Arthur, I don't even know what your _problem_ is."

Arthur stared at him in mounting speechless fury, and Gwaine found himself wincing a little, grateful almost against his will that that look wasn't directed at him. A lesser man than Merlin might have taken a step back, but Merlin stood his ground, his shoulders squared and his chin held high as he braced himself for whatever Arthur would throw at him next.

"You don't— you—," Arthur sputtered after a moment, torn between incredulity and outrage, "you have the _audacity_ to go around conspiring behind my back and then throw it in my face?"

" _Conspiring?_ " Merlin said, haplessly, his voice pitching up in sheer disbelief. He held up his hands in a defensive, placating gesture, and even took a step towards the prince, heedless of the tight, trembling clench of his fists that Gwaine could see even from a distance. "Arthur—"

Arthur jerked away before Merlin could touch him, and Merlin let his hands fall back to his sides, his pleading expression verging on the kind of desperation that made something hidden pull tight in Gwaine's chest. "Why don't you go talk to _Lancelot_ some more," Arthur spat viciously, "have a little heart to heart with the only person here who will even _listen_ to your nonsense," and he turned on his heel and stormed away, walking down the hill in big, angry strides.

Although the prince's tone had been full of cold resentment, something seemed to be hovering just out of reach there, too, something almost like hurt. Gwaine frowned in confusion, a spark of righteous irritation rekindling itself in his chest—as far as he was concerned, _Arthur_ had no right to be hurt right now. The shocked, crestfallen look on Merlin's face made Gwaine want to run after the prince and demand an explanation, at least if he could keep himself from beating some sense into his head for long enough, but he stayed where he was.

From his perch next to the half-finished table, Leon looked after Arthur for a moment before he stood abruptly, and Gwaine felt a small measure of relief when he followed the prince into the trees. Leon probably hadn't heard what the argument had been about from that distance, but their voices had been loud enough for him to at least make out the tone.

Merlin remained where he was, standing next to the bonfire with his arms hanging limply at his sides. His expression veered somewhere between confused, hurt, and defiant, as if unlike Gwaine, he had at least an inkling what had just happened, but was still holding on to his resolve not to back off. The way he bowed his head after a moment made Gwaine's legs itch to walk over to him, though whether he would even be able to offer any sort of comfort, he didn't know.

He sighed instead, jerking his gaze away from Merlin with some difficulty, and focused on the pile of wood in front of him. Most of the thicker branches probably hadn't had the time to dry out properly with the torrential spring rain that had gone down a week ago. Twigs and leaves had been added at the top to help the wood catch fire in the evening, and Gwaine shot a look at the sky as he put another branch in between, hoping that the weather would keep up.

But even with the hustle and bustle going on around him, he couldn't quite disengage his thoughts from the argument he had overheard. Arthur's last words kept repeating themselves over and over in his mind, along with the stricken look on his face when Merlin had first mentioned Lancelot. If Gwaine hadn't known that the prince would probably punch him in the face if he ever voiced it out loud, he would have thought that Arthur had been jealous.

 

 

If one stopped to think about it, Arthur suspected that it must be something about the clear country air that rendered Maneshale's bards more skillful than those of Camelot. At any rate, it only took the fiddlers about a minute to tune their instruments, and then they launched into a merry tune that made even the gray-haired old man Arthur had sat down next to bob his head along in rhythm.

The clearing was filled with flickering light, the bonfires casting a golden glow over everything even as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon and painted the treetops. The villagers had lit the fires as soon as the wood had been assembled into four neat piles, although it had been barely late afternoon then—when he asked, Arthur had been assured that the wood would take ages to properly catch fire, and now he saw that they'd been right. The fires were fully alight now, roaring columns of flames that spat gleaming waves of embers into the darkened sky, and he had to admit that they looked even more impressive here, in a large clearing in the middle of the woods, than they did at Camelot in the courtyard and the market square.

All around him, people were laughing and dancing and drinking, cheeks rosy even without the aid of wine in the firelight. The bards were standing just a few paces behind Arthur, and he thought he recognized bits and pieces of their melodies from songs he'd heard at court, despite the occasional eruption of roughened, off-key singing that erupted from the other end of the table.

He'd been ushered to sit down along with the others, a goblet of heavy, spiced wine pressed into his hand by a passing girl and pats clapped onto his shoulders by some of the farmers as they thanked him and his men for their help. In Camelot he would've been up and about by now, circulating among the visiting nobles and taking great care to be equally polite and friendly to all their daughters. He might have asked Morgana to dance, if only for the chance to be turned down and fall into the familiar rhythm of their sniping matches. The knights would have been whirling the ladies across the room, trying to keep up with the music to the best of their ability. And Merlin would have been leaning against a nearby pillar, grinning at Arthur with wine-stained lips whenever their gazes met, and Arthur wouldn't even have been annoyed that Merlin kept sneaking stray gulps of the pitcher he was carrying.

But apparently the villagers had decided to let their visitors sit back and enjoy the feast, since no one had come to talk to him or even ask him to dance all evening. He pushed the thought of Camelot away—it was no use thinking of how things had been, because they would never be the same again, and if there was one thing Arthur hated, it was the maudlin mood he could feel himself slipping into.

Leaning his elbows on the freshly-furnished table that he'd seen the villagers put together that afternoon, he sought out the familiar shapes of his knights amidst the revelers. Leon was dancing with the chambermaid that had served them their lunch at the inn—Arthur could see her grimacing slightly even through the twilight, and guessed that Leon kept stepping on her feet, but she still seemed to enjoy the dance.

A never-ending, persistent stream of girls kept walking up to Lancelot, curtsying to him with coquettish gleams in their eyes. But as far as Arthur could tell from this distance, Lancelot kept declining their offers to dance, ever-so-courteously. The sight stirred up a faint tingle of amusement in the back of his mind, until he remembered that Lancelot was probably thinking of Gwen and turned down the women because of her.

He frowned in annoyance, taking a stubbornly big swallow of wine to drown the thought; now was not the time to mull over _that_ either, especially since it was just a single element on a long list of things he couldn't change. The alcohol burned a path down his throat, a welcome distraction, and he let his gaze drift again. He could see the innkeeper dancing with his wife, twirling her through the gap between two bonfires—something Arthur would need to do eventually as well, because even if he didn't feel like dancing, the ritual still demanded that he purified himself in time for the onset of summer.

Some of the men got up from the other end of the table, swaying just slightly as they milled about looking for their wives (or, well, at least for the women they had chosen to spend this night with). The rough-cut wood was laden down with trays of food, smoked fish and baked meat and tureens of thick, savory soup that Arthur had already eaten his fill of. A roasted pig took up the middle of the table, an apple in its mouth, and as Arthur watched, a couple of dancers plopped down on the wobbly bench, their faces shining with laughter and sweat. They weren't the first to lay into the pig and cut off thick steaming slices from its flank—judging from the size of the animal, Arthur suspected that its meat would last them another day.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Arthur looked to the left, at the second table that had been set up on the eastern side of the clearing. Leon had finished his dance with the chambermaid and was sitting down, already reaching for a mug of cider—his hair was in disarray from the dance, gleaming in the firelight. He was inclining his head at someone, although the expression didn't seem purely joyful; even from this distance, Arthur could see a note of concern undermining his cheer. Following the knight's gaze, he didn't even know why he was surprised when his eyes landed on Merlin.

The first thing he noticed was the goblet clutched in his hand—a distant part of Arthur's mind mused that if it contained wine, it was no wonder that Merlin was leaning against the table for support. But he didn't look drunk, and he appeared to be idly surveying the celebration, eyes dark in the flickering light.

It could just be Arthur's imagination, but he thought that Merlin seemed to avoid looking in his direction, his body turned slightly away from Arthur's table, shoulders hunched as if against a chill, in spite of the bonfires roaring just a few paces away. As he watched, Merlin flickered a doubtful look down at his goblet, but raised it to his lips to take an experimental gulp of whatever was inside. Arthur guessed that it must indeed be wine, since Merlin grimaced when he lowered it again and swallowed his mouthful with some difficulty.

The alcohol didn't seem to do anything for him, though. He still looked lonely and a little sad, and even from this distance Arthur saw the effort it took him to give Gwaine a fleeting smile when he whirled a giggling maid past him in a raucous dance. The sight made something pull tight in Arthur's chest, an uncomfortable, achy pressure unfurling the ball of anger that had been sitting there all night.

But then he thought back to their argument, and had to look away and breathe deeply against the renewed surge of simmering emotion. He downed the last of his wine, and forced himself to think that it served Merlin right.

To all intents and purposes, he'd felt furious enough to burst when he'd stridden off into the forest that afternoon. He'd thought that he had managed to close off that foolish, aching part of himself after Merlin had revealed to him that Lancelot had known of his magic all along, but apparently he had been wrong. As with so many things lately, Arthur didn't know how else to react except to erupt into anger, and so he had whirled around when he felt a hesitant touch on his arm, ready to strike out at whoever had been foolish enough to follow him.

It had just been Sir Leon, though, and Arthur had felt himself deflating a little almost against his will. It was impossible to hold on to all of his ire with the way Leon looked at him, guarded and wary and just short of concerned, but that didn't mean he couldn't try. He'd squared his shoulders and let his knight look at him in silence, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of being assessed crawling across his skin.

"Arth— sire," Leon had said eventually, after the hush had stretched for long enough, "whatever Merlin said, I'm sure he meant no disrespect."

For a brief moment, Arthur wondered at how everyone seemed to think that honorifics would placate him, but then Leon's words registered with him, and he just shook his head even as he felt his hands curl into fists on their own accord. "Don't fool yourself, Leon," he snapped back harshly, although the words were accompanied by a brief flash of regret, because none of this was _Leon's_ fault after all. "Merlin is a walking, talking epitome of disrespect."

"If I may speak freely, your highness," Leon countered, but didn't wait for confirmation, looking determined to say what he'd come to say regardless of whether Arthur wanted to hear it, "you used to value that."

Arthur had gaped at him for what felt like a pretty long time, not all that surprised at the older man's words, but quite unable to come up with a scathing reply. It was true, after all—if there was one thing he'd come to value about Merlin over time, it was his straightforwardness, rather than his dismal service. Merlin always told Arthur what he thought of him, not mincing his words but neither aiming to cut him down to size with two sentences and a disappointed look like his father had used to.

Well, _almost_ always. There was at least one thing that Merlin had been dishonest about. And suddenly, beneath the gently rustling leaves with Leon's gaze on him, it had struck Arthur as so profoundly _unfair_ that even after all this time, the mere memory of Merlin's confession was still enough for him to make his teeth gnash so hard his jaw hurt.

Leon looked back at him in silence, and it had been evident from the steely persistence hidden behind his gaze that he wasn't going to back down no matter how hard Arthur glared at him. And somehow, for the first time in months, Arthur found himself almost wanting to be the one to surrender, to let his shoulders slump from their tense hunch and unclench his fists, perhaps run his fingers through his hair in an effort to wipe the ever-present simmer of betrayed anger from his mind.

He'd felt tired just then, unbearably exhausted even under Leon's calm, searching regard. No one would need to know if he faltered just a little, if he just gave in and at least _nodded_ , if he acknowledged that Leon was right, that his thoughtless anger was making him lose sight of what Merlin had meant to him, had _been_ to him before. Maybe that was the reason why Merlin had gone to Lancelot yet again while he'd used to come to Arthur to discuss anything of importance such as the Green Knight's motivations. As unobservant as Arthur thought Merlin was on an average day, maybe he felt it too, the distance between them that widened into a chasm no matter how stubbornly Merlin had tried to breach it during the past few months.

But a voice had piped up from the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like his father, telling him that crown princes did not back down and show weakness in front of their knights, even if it was just Leon. Arthur took a deep breath, and another, trying to will away the tight obstruction in his chest, reaching up to mercilessly squeeze at his throat. Merlin was a sorcerer, and a traitor, and if Arthur listened to the voice at the back of his mind, there was no reason for him to feel like the floor was being yanked from under his feet the further they drifted apart. And if he had subconsciously stopped believing that a long time ago, no one needed to know.

Words had bubbled up in him, just as spiteful as the ones he'd hurled at Merlin in the clearing, but after a long moment of silence, Arthur had not said that Leon was to mind his own business. He'd just turned on his heel and walked away, and Leon seemed to have gotten the hint, because he did not follow him.

Suddenly, a cheer went up at the far side of the clearing, and Arthur blinked to refocus his eyes on the farthest bonfire, forcefully yanking his mind back into the present. Sounds of mildly panicked mooing arose as a few men threw more wood onto the fires, sweating under their thick leather tunics that protected them from flying embers. He could hear dogs barking, and suddenly a small herd of cattle burst out from between two sparking mounds of flame, guided through the gap between two bonfires by enthusiastic farmers.

Arthur watched the procession until the cows disappeared back into the trees and the farmers around him broke out into applause. He'd heard of livestock being driven between the purifying flames, but hadn't seen it actually done until now—by the time that part of the peasants' rituals started, he was usually shut up in the castle, plied with wine and heralded with stories from the visiting court jester. The cattle had looked well-fed and healthy, their dark brown fur shimmering in the firelight, and Arthur found himself smiling absently, glad that this village, at least, would get on well enough without their lord.

The bards fell silent behind him for a moment, and the dancers milled back into the clearing, having stood off to the side to let the cattle pass by before. Expectant looks were directed at the musicians, until the fiddlers launched into a tune that was distinctly familiar.

The old man next to Arthur started humming along even as the dancers moved around the fires again, and eventually one of the bards started to sing, his clear voice rising effortlessly above the crackling of the flames and the general chatter that filled the clearing. Arthur blinked in surprise when half of the villagers around the table suddenly joined in—it seemed to be a well-known song not just in Camelot. He didn't know the words, but found himself tapping his foot in rhythm anyway, giving himself over to the distraction with no small measure of relief.

He could see—though mercifully not hear—Gwaine singing along on the other side of the clearing, his arm slung over the pale shoulders of the same chambermaid that had danced with Leon before. Leon was watching them too, although he didn't look at all offended as the girl smothered her giggles into Gwaine's tunic; apparently his singing was as atrocious as Arthur suspected.

Two laughing villagers raised their goblets to him in passing, and Gwaine interrupted his caterwauling for just long enough to down the rest of his mug in one gulp. The chambermaid looked distinctly impressed when he put it down on the table with an audible clang, his hand remaining steady. He tugged her up from the bench after a moment, stumbling only slightly when he drew her back into the circle of dancers, and if his steps weren't as sure as hers, no one seemed to mind.

 

 

After his second goblet of watered-down wine, Merlin realized with sudden astonishment that he was drunk.

Well, he wasn't completely sloshed, or at least not as drunk as Gwaine—who was holding his liquor way better than Merlin did, to be sure, but he supposed it was to be expected, due to his friend's drinking habits. Gwaine had downed so much cider that Merlin marveled at how steady he still was on his feet. His dancing was less agile than before and he seemed to be stepping on quite a few toes on his way, but he was still whirling his giggling partner around the bonfires, apologizing ever-jovially whenever he bumped into someone. The villagers didn't hold their squashed toes and slightly bruised shoulders against him, but rather toasted him with their goblets whenever he returned to the table for another drink, their grins infected by his cheer.

Merlin, on the other hand, was reasonably sure that he would fall over if he got up, and with how woozy his head was getting, he didn't feel like testing that theory. His brain felt mushy, like it had been wrapped in wool, and while that had been quite a pleasant feeling at first, it was now starting to slow down his thoughts. Initially, he'd just wanted to help himself to some liquid courage with vague plans of cornering Arthur behind a bonfire and drawing all the things that had remained unsaid that afternoon out of him. But then one gulp had led to the next, and before he'd fully caught on to what he was doing, he was slowly but surely getting shitfaced and didn't even mind all that much.

It was nearing midnight by now, and while everyone was getting progressively drunker, that was apparently no reason for the villagers to stop dancing. Just watching their movements made Merlin dizzy, and he looked down into his goblet for a while to steady himself, noticing somewhat absently that the liquid within reflected the stars. His thoughts were drifting aimlessly, little pinpricks of light zapping across the horizon of his mind. For some reason he found himself thinking of Erik, and wondered how he might be celebrating Beltane tonight—Merlin hoped that he'd join the villagers, or at least not sit around all alone in the hunting lodge.

"You haven't heard of a noblewomen named Ragnelle, have you?" he asked the next serving girl who stopped to refill his goblet, with undiluted wine this time—he might have stopped her if his mind had been less fuzzy, but as it was, he didn't really care _what_ he drank anymore.

She just gave him a weird look and shook her head, moving on to the other table where a cluster of farmers was sitting, rocking back and forth slowly with their arms around each others' shoulders as they sang along to the bards' song. Merlin followed her with his gaze, but although he forgot to brace himself, he was surprised to see that Arthur wasn't there.

He'd been sneaking surreptitious looks at him all evening while he waited for the wine to settle into his bloodstream as the warm, comforting presence that it seemed to be for the other revelers. Arthur, on the other hand, had studiously avoided even glancing his way, and Merlin had tried not to let that sting as much as it wanted to, assuring himself that he _would_ get his chance to talk to Arthur again before the night was over. The firelight had cast a golden glow across his features, lighting up the suntipped ends of his hair, but even the soft, flickering light couldn't hide how tired Arthur looked. At least he hadn't seemed to want to drown his thoughts in alcohol like he sometimes did in Camelot.

Even though the two tables were barely a few paces apart, Arthur had seemed so far away, like he'd disappear the minute Merlin's gaze didn't hold him down—and well, now he had. Blearily, Merlin wondered when he'd ever thought that all he had to do to earn his place at Arthur's side was to tell him about his magic.

He downed his wine in three big gulps, choking and coughing when a trickle went down the wrong pipe and burned a path down his throat. Then he put the goblet down with a clang and hauled himself up into a standing position before he could think better of it. Thankfully the world remained mostly steady around him, although it took him a few swaying steps to regain his balance.

Picking a way through the dancers would have been an ordeal even completely sober, and as fuzzy as Merlin's mind felt, he found himself bumping into people more often than not. But the villagers just rolled their eyes at his clumsiness, laughing and briefly putting a hand on his shoulder or arm to steady him again. Gwaine spun past him, hair flying and his teeth gleaming in the firelight with the broad grin that seemed permanently etched onto his features. He was still dancing with the same chambermaid Merlin had seen him with all evening, although she seemed a little worse for wear by now, the wreath of hawthorn knocked askew on her head and her movements not quite fast enough to keep up with her partner's boundless energy anymore.

There was a brief pause as the bards finished their song and the villagers lined up for a round dance, and Merlin made good use of it by hurrying through the rows of people towards the far side of the clearing. He let out a sigh of relief when he'd passed the dancers, glad that he wouldn't be in the way anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Leon, who seemed to be trying to get back to the table although a giggling girl was following him, set on convincing him to dance with her.

Merlin dutifully suppressed his smile although Leon wasn't even looking in his direction, and ducked past a shower of sparks that burst from the nearest bonfire when one of the farmers heaved another load of logs into the flames. The fires would burn all through the night, and he didn't envy the men who had to keep them going. Warmth had suffused his bones and sunk into his skin even when he'd still been sitting at the table, but it was even hotter this close to the fires. Every inhale made his throat sting, his eyes burning from the heat.

It got easier to breathe once he'd passed the first two bonfires and was walking towards the far end of the clearing, stumbling every few steps on the uneven ground. The roar of the flames nearly drowned out the music from behind him, and he was surprised at how quiet it was here, away from the others. There was just the crackling of the fires, an occasional burst of embers soaring up into the sky, and Merlin followed them with his gaze until he got dizzy from looking up. The air felt like a living, breathing thing against the exposed skin of his face and hands, crackling with a strange energy that he attributed to the effects of the wine after a moment.

He found Arthur standing in front of the last fire, his face tilted towards the sky, like he was watching the embers too. Merlin could see the stars twinkling amidst the velvety blackness if he squinted, but down here, the flickering firelight outshone even the waning crescent moon. He could see the exact moment Arthur noticed him, because his stance shifted almost imperceptibly—Merlin might have missed it if he hadn't been looking so closely, but at least he didn't fold his arms across his chest or turn away. He just stood there and watched Merlin's approach, his silhouette backlit by the fire behind him, one hand loosely propped on his hip and the other hanging down at his side.

Merlin stopped a few paces away, not wanting to crowd Arthur, but it took him a moment to regain his footing—it was like his legs didn't comprehend the concept of standing still anymore after they'd been in motion for the past few minutes. He stumbled, but didn't fall, and fixed his gaze on Arthur's unmoving form to steady himself. Arthur's face was inscrutable, carefully wiped blank of any expression at all, and Merlin took a deep breath, envying his control.

"I didn't talk to Lancelot because I wanted to," he told him, without any preamble at all, his tongue loosened by the alcohol that was zapping through his bloodstream. But at least his voice came out steady and decisive, and Merlin reminded himself to be grateful for small favors.

Arthur didn't reply, didn't even move or indicate that he was listening, and Merlin swallowed nervously, adding, as an afterthought, "Well, I _did_ in a way, he's my friend after all, but—"

He grimaced when he realized that his babbling was threatening to ruin the moment, and forced himself to snap his mouth shut. Arthur seemed impossibly far away, a tight, unreadable expression on his features like he was struggling not to react to Merlin's words. The ground between them looked overwhelmingly black in the dim light, and if he hadn't known better, he might have thought it to be a chasm between them, widening with each second that ticked by.

"I wanted to talk to _you_ ," Merlin said, cursing the desperate note that was slipping into his tone without his consent. He'd wanted to do this calmly, to slip around Arthur's defenses before the prince found a reason to shout at him again, but he couldn't force his voice back into the calm, detached tone he'd lain out in front of his mind's eye. The wine was watering down the restraint he'd thought he had on himself, dragging his emotions too close to the surface again. "I just didn't think you'd listen."

Arthur seemed to consider that, and Merlin forced his breathing to remain regular and unhurried, trying to beat down the tremor of hope that fluttered in his chest. At least he hadn't gotten yelled at just yet, which was a step further than what had gone down that afternoon.

Merlin started slightly when Arthur brought up a hand to run his fingers through his hair, sighing deeply. For a moment he looked exhausted, like he was just as tired of the back-and-forth nature of this thing they were doing as Merlin was—Merlin felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, but he didn't look away when Arthur sought and held his gaze for a long moment.

The silence stretched, and Merlin thought dizzily that Arthur's eyes were fathomless and dark in the twilight, and that his golden hair caught the firelight in a way that looked like he was wearing a crown. He waited for Arthur to take the opening that Merlin was offering him, and hoped, _hoped_ that Arthur would break—that he would finally vent all of the questions and accusations that must have accumulated in his mind during the past few months.

"I'm listening now," Arthur offered at last, although he obviously wasn't, or at least not the way Merlin wanted him to. His voice was too sharp, tight with residual held-back anger from the past afternoon. The look of fatigue was gone, but Merlin held on to the memory stubbornly, reminding himself that it _had_ been there, however fleeting. "Talk, then."

Merlin thought about that for a while, turning the words over in his head, and wondered dimly why he didn't feel more surprised. It seemed like he _should_ be, since he hadn't seen that coming at all, but something in Arthur's tone had thrown him off-kilter, the same strange undercurrent he had noticed that afternoon as well. The way Arthur held himself, his shoulders squared and his features kept carefully blank—it seemed too much like he was trying to prove to Merlin that Lancelot had nothing on him when it came to listening.

He still took a deep breath, though, trying to assemble what he wanted to say through the wine-induced haze in his mind. While he of course _wanted_ to tell Arthur everything, he hadn't quite imagined it would start like this. It didn't seem to happen at the right moment or even for the right reason, but the stiff, closed-off look on Arthur's face brooked no argument.

There was something suspiciously like distant, remembered pain in the tight line of his jaw, and Merlin knew that if he didn't talk _now_ , Arthur would get the completely wrong idea about the fact that he'd talked to Lancelot first. And so he swallowed the uncomfortable itch in his throat, ignored the clamminess of his hands, and spoke.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Merlin began, hesitantly, and had to fight down a small rush of relief when a bit of the woodenness melted out of Arthur's expression, giving way to surprise. It made him feel lightheaded, but he still waited until Arthur nodded before he went on.

"The first time I used magic in Camelot was when we— um— during the fight in the market," he finished lamely, belatedly realizing that that might not have been the best example of what his magic could do, at least not if he wanted to convince Arthur that it wasn't evil.

Arthur stared at him for a moment before comprehension dawned on his features, obviously remembering the incident. He looked astonished, rather than angry, but Merlin figured that that might come later—he watched Arthur warily, and saw recognition flicker through his eyes as though he'd turned the matter over in his head a lot of times back in the day. Merlin smiled a little at the thought; it was just like Arthur to feel vindicated now that his defeat had been accredited to magic.

Merlin let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. Arthur seemed surprised out of the tight hold he'd had on himself before, but this time Merlin didn't try to quell the hopeful warmth that stirred in his chest. Maybe the chasm between them wasn't too wide to breach yet, although it had surely felt that way in the afternoon—at least Arthur wasn't shouting at him, and he wasn't even glaring, although Merlin knew that the truce might end up more short-lived than he wanted it to be. He would still have to choose his words carefully—or well, as carefully as he could with his head swimming with alcohol.

Arthur shook his head a little, like he was trying to get that particular piece of information to slot into place in his mind. An undefined determination sharpened the look in his eyes, although his voice was hesitant when he asked, "But you didn't just use it to win fights in an unfair fashion, did you?"

There was no amusement in his tone, not yet, and Merlin suppressed a sigh, telling himself sternly that he hadn't expected it to be there anyway. Arthur was watching him, not _apprehensively_ , but with a strange thoroughness that looked like he was reassessing everything he'd thought he knew about him. It confused Merlin, made his skin itch and set him on edge, because surely Arthur had had enough time to integrate the magic into his view of Merlin—but well, on the other hand, maybe he'd just avoided thinking about it until now.

"No," Merlin said, softly now, trying not to infuse it with too much emotion. Words bloomed to life on his tongue, trying to tumble out of his mouth. He wanted to assure Arthur that he was still the same person, that nothing had really _changed_ , just like he had when he'd first told him. But back then Arthur hadn't reacted too well to that either, and so he held the words back.

It seemed like he'd already put Arthur on edge again, though, because the prince nodded, his features hardening almost imperceptibly as if a theory of his had just been confirmed. Merlin blinked at him, feeling clumsy and stupid with the wine that still coursed through his system and slowed down his thoughts, but when he finally caught on, he suddenly felt like walking up to Arthur and shaking him back and forth.

" _No_ ," Merlin said again, more vehemently, and raked his hands through his hair. He didn't know if he felt frustrated or sad or both—a jumble of emotion was surging up in him, breaking the thin sheet of tranquility that the alcohol had kept them under. "Arthur, I didn't mean— I've only ever used it to _help_ you!"

Arthur recoiled a little, eyes widening at Merlin's outburst, and Merlin bit his tongue to stop himself from saying more, well aware that his voice had risen to a shout. Maybe Arthur really was that obtuse, Merlin told himself, taking a deep breath to calm himself again—maybe he really had no idea that the whole thing wasn't just hard on _him_. It might be obvious to everyone else, but Arthur had a way of dismissing things that he didn't know what to do with, although Merlin couldn't quite bring himself to believe that the prince hadn't noticed how Merlin had waited all this time for just the right moment to blurt out his pent-up barrage of explanations.

At last Arthur cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortably, glancing off to the side for a moment like he couldn't believe what he was doing, or what he _hadn't_ done yet, namely yell at Merlin until he stopped trying to explain away the distrust that had been festering in the prince's mind for so long. "How?"

It took Merlin a moment to recognize the single word as a question. "Um," he muttered intelligently, frowning at the lack of anger or even betrayal on Arthur's features. Apparently he'd taken the flicker of distrust from earlier and shoved it away—however unexpected this conversation was for Arthur, he seemed to _want_ to have it, if only just to see where it would lead them. "Remember Valiant?"

Sighing deeply as though lamenting Merlin's lack of trust in his long-term memory, Arthur reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, the gesture so familiar that something small and aching curled up behind Merlin's ribs. "Of course I _remember_ Valiant."

"I used magic then, too," Merlin explained, a bit self-consciously, but he fought to keep his head held high, not flinching away even when Arthur's eyebrows drew together in a frown. If the prince could deal with hearing this, Merlin could damn well deal with saying it. "I made the snakes on his shield come alive."

The searching look slid off of Arthur's face as though it had been wiped away. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and even in the dim firelight Merlin could see the shock in his eyes, the bewildered incomprehension that looked like he'd expected Merlin to say anything but _that_.

"What, so they could _poison_ me?" he spluttered at last, and _now_ the anger was back, although it was held tightly in check behind a baffled sort of disappointment that Arthur didn't even bother to hide; Merlin flinched back at the snap in his voice. "Thanks a lot, Merlin, but I would have been quite fine without your _help_."

Merlin gaped at him, his thoughts stuttering to a halt, and a distant faraway corner of his mind mused calmly that if he hadn't drank all that wine earlier, he might have still been able to express himself in an unambiguous manner that would have prevented this. A sinking feeling was starting to crawl through his stomach, settling in with familiar ease, but he still couldn't speak, couldn't even process the fact that Arthur had misinterpreted his words so thoroughly for a too-long moment.

Predictably, Arthur didn't so much as wait for Merlin to explain himself. He just shook his head, this time in residual disappointed confusion, and Merlin watched in mute, numb helplessness as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Later, Merlin suspected that it had been the alcohol that spurred him into motion, combined with what felt like weeks of remembered frustration creeping up the back of his throat like bile. His first step was unsteady, and he ended up half-slipping down the gentle slope of the clearing as he tried to run after Arthur, but through some miracle he didn't lose his equilibrium completely. The air seemed to shift and snap around him as though shattered by his movement, the crackling of the fires mingling with the roar of blood in his ears. He tripped over his own feet, flailing wildly to keep his balance, and all but barreled into Arthur's back.

Arthur whirled around, and they stumbled down the rest of the slope together, the clearing blurring into a wash of color, bright flames mingling with the shadowy treeline, looking strange and otherworldly in the dim light. Merlin hung on with half-drunken stubbornness, refusing to let go of the front of Arthur's tunic, and Arthur's hands had come up to grip fistfuls of his shirt at some point, pulling it so tightly around his shoulders that an absent, unaffected corner of Merlin's mind wondered if it would rip along his back.

They staggered to a halt under the trees, and for a second Merlin had to squeeze his eyes shut against the surge of nauseating vertigo that threatened to pull him under. His breath was coming in short, sharp bursts of air, and he could still see the brightness of the flames through his eyelids—away from the fires for the first time that evening, he felt cold, the night air chilling his skin like the bite of winter.

"You are such an entitled, pompous, self-righteous _prat!_ " Merlin yelled as soon as he'd regained enough of his breath to push the words out, no longer caring whether anyone heard. The canopy of leaves rustled above as if in agreement, and he used his grip on Arthur's tunic to shake him. "Why did you even _bother_ being jealous of Lancelot if you didn't want to hear what I have to say anyway?"

A part of him regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth, but it felt so _good_ to yell at Arthur for once, instead of being the one who was yelled at. He felt like he'd earned the right to shout at him as well, although he was aware, in a corner of his mind, that he was being a bit unfair now, since Arthur _had_ listened at least for a few minutes.

Arthur spluttered in outrage, doubtlessly taking offense at the notion of having been jealous at any point of his life, but this close to him, Merlin didn't miss the flash of dismay in his eyes, and he knew that his words had hit home. He also knew that Arthur would erupt into furious denials as soon as he got over his shock, and decided right there and then not to let that happen.

"You do not get to speak to me like that—," Arthur began, but Merlin cut him off with another shake, briefly marveling at the fact that Arthur even let him manhandle him like that, at least for now. But with how submissively Merlin had reacted to the prince's bouts of betrayed anger until now, it was no wonder that he was taking Arthur completely off-guard now.

"Everyone thought you were a coward," he said without preamble, fighting to keep his voice at least close to level, and ignored the way Arthur's mouth dropped open in disbelief, "the court, the king, and you were just— going to get yourself _killed_ to save your _stupid honor_ , and I _couldn't_ —"

Merlin took a deep breath, helpless to stop himself from reliving the frantic desperation that had spurred him on that night, that had forced him to repeat the words of the spell again and again no matter how dry his mouth became or how his eyes tried to droop shut with fatigue. Arthur was silent, his grip still tight with anger and his eyes wild, pupils blown wide in the dim light, but he didn't speak, and he didn't shove Merlin away.

"I spent _all night_ struggling with that spell," Merlin choked out, wondering dimly when his throat had closed up, but he didn't stop. "It was the only way to make sure you survived _and_ didn't end up disgraced. I made the snakes come alive to expose Valiant as the cheater he was."

Arthur was silent, staring at Merlin as though he'd never seen him before, and for a moment it reminded Merlin so strongly of the day he'd told Arthur about his magic that his breath hitched helplessly. But it wasn't quite the betrayed dismay from that evening, although Merlin could still see the confusion wrought into Arthur's irritated frown, and swallowed hard against the thundering drum of his heart.

"And you don't—" He broke off when his voice wobbled, and shook his head although the movement made him even dizzier. Everything seemed to be coming apart, the pain he'd locked away so carefully unraveling at the seams, and he didn't know what to do with it except throw it at Arthur's feet, riding the high of the last of his anger before it fizzled out. "You don't get to just walk away like that, after all this time. You _wanted_ me to talk—"

"Get your hands off me," Arthur said suddenly, his voice low and dangerous and maybe just a little desperate, like the shake of Merlin's voice was not something he'd been prepared to hear. He struggled against Merlin's grip, not in earnest, but more like he was fighting to stir up some residual belligerence, get his feet back onto a ground he could deal with. "I've given you your chance—"

"No, you haven't!" Merlin shouted, his voice finally breaking, feeling almost hysterical and so dizzy that he had no idea which way was up anymore. "You deigned to listen for _two seconds_ , and then you ran away the moment I said something you didn't want to hear!"

The silence seemed absolute after his outburst. Merlin swallowed convulsively around the hot, jagged lump in his throat, but couldn't bring himself to even feel mortified at the blurred edges of his vision. Arthur didn't look like he was so much as thinking about laughing at him anyway. He looked a bit helpless, and still resentful, although this quietly simmering irritation had nothing on his earlier anger.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Merlin's heart beating out an unsteady rhythm in his throat, but he didn't drop his gaze. Strains of music and laughter were floating over from the other side of the clearing, carried along by the chilly breeze that was rustling through the leaves above. It seemed odd that the celebrations were carrying on as usual just a furlong away, while Merlin and Arthur were having exactly the kind of conversation that Merlin had spent the past few months hoping and wishing for. Somewhere along the line it had gone wrong, and right now, Merlin didn't even care whose fault that was. He just held Arthur's gaze, the warmth of their bodies merging with how close they were standing together, and let their breaths mingle in the dark, shadowy space between.

"You think you can force me to listen," Arthur said at last, his tone quiet and controlled, "force me to adjust my opinion of magic to what you think is right."

It wasn't quite a question, and somehow, that made Merlin sadder than most everything else Arthur had said to him this evening. He closed his eyes for a second, and took a deep breath, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was still clutching Arthur's tunic. From the way his fingers were pressed into Arthur's chest, he could tell that his tension was ebbing slowly, coming down from the rush of energy that their argument had triggered. But he still felt Arthur's pulse hammer beneath his knuckles, belying the stony veneer on his face that seemed close to cracking anyway.

"No," Merlin replied, tiredly, and finally released his hold. His fingers stung when he forced them to unclench—it took Arthur a moment to catch on, but when he did, he let go of Merlin's shoulders as if he'd been burned. "I just want to give you something to base your opinion on, something better than..."

 _...your father's prejudices_ , he didn't say, but he might as well have voiced the thought out loud, since the darkening of Arthur's eyes showed that he understood very well.

Merlin sighed, and took a step back, since he knew that the prince would never back away from him but needed his space anyway. His head was spinning again, though not as badly as before—yelling seemed to have sobered him up a little, although he knew that he was still in for the worst hangover of his life the next day. He couldn't even remember when the conversation had taken a wrong turn; he only knew that they had now ended up with the kind of silence that Merlin hated, the one that felt too much like defeat. They weren't back to square one, not quite, but Merlin still didn't understand how they'd ended up taking a step back when he'd drunk all that wine earlier with the intention of pushing them forward.

"You were right," Merlin found himself saying, softly enough for the words to nearly get drowned out by the rustle of leaves. "What you said by the lake on the way to Treffynnon—we still have a long way to go."

"I was talking about the journey, Merlin," Arthur replied after a moment of silence, rubbing a hand across his forehead as though to fight an oncoming headache. He looked just as tired as Merlin felt, and a little of the dejection that had curled up in his chest melted away at the sight. It wasn't easy for him either, no matter how much Arthur tried to find shelter behind his anger and convince both of them that he was the only one who'd been wronged.

"Well, _I'm_ talking about us," Merlin muttered back, but the spark of annoyance was short-lived and faint compared to the wildfire from earlier.

Arthur just shook his head at him, and for a moment Merlin wished he'd roll his eyes, although he wasn't surprised when he didn't. "Come on," Arthur said, inclining his head towards the fires with a sigh. "We'd better get back to the others."

Merlin could feel his fatigue finally catch up to him as he trudged up the gentle slope behind Arthur, tripping over his feet every-so-often on the uneven ground. Returning to the bonfires felt good after such a long time spent at the edge of the clearing, and he let out a quiet sigh of relief when warmth engulfed him the closer the got to the flames.

Maybe they _had_ taken a small step forward after all, Merlin mused as he stifled a yawn into his palm and followed Arthur through a throng of dancers. Arthur's shell was cracking, and so was his own resolve to let Arthur come to terms with the whole thing on his own. He couldn't seem to keep his distance anymore, and neither did Arthur, and they just had to figure out how not to yell at each other when they met in the middle. Which would be no mean feat, considering how obstinate both of them were on occasion, but at least it would be a start.

 

 

The fires still roared and the fiddlers still played for all they were worth, but when Gwaine nearly toppled over into the flames for the third time, he got the nagging suspicion that he was getting too drunk to dance.

He never actually counted how many goblets or mugs he drank, but he hazily remembered repeated trips to the edge of the clearing whenever dancing had made him thirsty, and well, it wasn't _his_ fault that the cider and the spiced wine tasted that good.

The throng of dancers was thinning progressively, and he suspected that a few of the villagers had sneaked away into the woods with their sweethearts. He'd automatically looked around for Arthur the first time he'd seen a couple duck under the treeline, grinning in anticipation at the baffled embarrassment that would surely appear on the prince's features when he realized where they were going and why. Somehow, he got the feeling that Arthur hadn't gotten into touch with the more rural rituals of Beltane feasts, since he couldn't imagine any of Camelot's high and mighty courtiers stealing away into the night for a quick shag.

But he hadn't found Arthur, and realized at about the same time that he couldn't find Merlin either. Merlin had been standing off to the side for the entire evening, with such a subdued air about him that Gwaine hadn't quite dared trying to drag him into the circle of dancers and throw a girl at him. He _had_ noticed that Merlin had been drinking rather too much wine, though (well, by _his_ standards—it wouldn't even have sufficed to make Gwaine feel woozy).

Of course it was none of his business if Merlin wanted to drown his sorrows in alcohol, but somehow, Gwaine had gotten the feeling that that wasn't what Merlin intended to do. He'd kept glancing over at Arthur, who looked somewhat subdued as well, and swallowed another mouthful of watered-down wine whenever he managed to jerk his gaze away again. His eyes had gone progressively glassier, a high, unhealthy flush climbing to his cheeks as the alcohol entered his bloodstream and likely made him nauseous, if the pinched look on his face had been anything to go by.

Finally, Gwaine had sauntered over to him in a break between two dances, and asked Merlin whether he wanted to wake up with the mother of all hangovers the next morning. He'd mentally patted himself on the back for how tactful he'd been, since that wasn't usually his strong suit, but Merlin didn't even seem to have heard him. His gaze veered off towards Arthur, and he'd mumbled something about sitting on Arthur's right. Gwaine had barely managed to hold back a snort, and almost wondered aloud whether Merlin wouldn't rather sit in Arthur's lap, but bit back the snide comment on second thought.

He'd left Merlin to his drinking—he wasn't the right person to play moralizer anyway—and joined the dancers again, thinking that the drinking was probably an aftereffect of the afternoon's confrontation. Having made the vague decision to try to talk to Merlin in the morning when his defenses were likely to be weakened by a hangover, he gladly let himself be tugged back into the clearing by the nameless girl he'd been dancing with.

Twirling the chambermaid around again, Gwaine barely managed to hold her up when she stumbled against him, drunkenly giggling into his tunic. Despite the pleasant wooziness that engulfed his mind, he couldn't help rolling his eyes when he felt her breasts pressed up against his chest and the thigh she was clumsily trying to shove between his knees. Normally he wouldn't mind being taken advantage of, but the girl was even drunker than he was, and likely engaged to one of the farmers.

She didn't even seem to realize that her advances had been rejected when he gently pushed her away—she just tugged him around to face the other row of dancers again, stumbling and steadying herself against his side. They merged back into the crowd, although Gwaine took care not to spin her around quite as vigorously this time. The bards were playing a bit more slowly than they had at the beginning of the evening, probably to adjust to the rather worse dancing abilities of the throng of drunk people.

The thought made Gwaine grin again, and he found himself suddenly wishing that Percival were here—it would have been a source of epic hilarity to watch him try to fend off similar advances like the one the girl had just made on him. He could just picture the helpless, even terrified look Percival would wear as he struggled to keep his messily drunk dancing partner at arm's length without touching her too much.

A farmer bumped into him from behind, and Gwaine stumbled as the man ended up sprawled on the ground, to the sound of raucous—though not unfriendly—laughter from a few onlookers. He was grinning up at Gwaine, though, and so he disengaged his arm from around the girl's waist, and reached down to help him up.

"Alright there, mate?" the farmer slurred at him when he was pulled back up into a standing position, as if Gwaine had been the one to fall over. Gwaine blinked for a moment to dispel the dizziness that had nearly overtaken him when he'd leaned over, but the man clapped him on the arm—he'd probably been aiming for his shoulder—and stumbled back into the crowd.

When Gwaine turned back around to face his dancing partner again, he saw a sliver of green from the corner of his eye, the billow of a wind-tugged shirt disappearing behind the broad back of a burly red-faced villager.

He blinked again, and stared at the spot, the motion of the dancers making him dizzy. For a moment he was sure he'd imagined it, but then he saw it again, a flicker of color as deep as summer leaves, impossibly bright in the dim light, cutting through the hazy, earthen swirl of colors that the firelight had turned the villagers into.

The girl said something, looking up at him with glazed, slightly puzzled eyes, but Gwaine barely heard her voice over the sudden roar of blood in his ears. He tugged his hand out of her questioning grasp and dove into the swaying crowd, eyes never leaving the spot where he'd last seen the flash of green.

It felt like he'd been plunged into a basin of icy water, like he sometimes did with his head after a long night of drinks to sober himself up in time for patrol. His heart was pounding, the world splitting into a confusing jumble of noises and blurred colors as he stumbled over his own feet and staggered into the other dancers more than once, but he didn't stop. _Couldn't_ stop, really, because he'd just seen it again, a long stretch of bright green next to a fire, soft fabric pulling tight over a set of broad shoulders. And green wasn't all that unusual a color to wear on Beltane eve, but this time Gwaine saw the shock of disheveled long hair, gleaming and blacker than even the sky in the firelight, and he sped up his steps into a near-run.

This close to the bonfires, even the bards' merry tune was drowned out by the roar of the flames; it struck Gwaine as oddly ironic that the sound reminded him of the crashing surf at Treffynnon. The laughing chatter of the villagers seemed to grow distant behind him, fading more with each of his long, slightly uncoordinated strides. He stopped for a brief moment when he'd reached the gap between two of the fires, absently noticing that he'd just completed the purification ritual.

Narrowing his eyes against the glare of the flames, Gwaine slowly looked around the clearing; every breath felt like he was inhaling the fire he was standing next to, and he still felt light-headed, but also strangely alive, as though a string within him had been plucked by that first glance of a familiar green shirt. Then he caught sight of something under the trees at the far side of the clearing, something he would have missed if he hadn't been looking so closely—a flash of light reflected by polished metal, a gleaming arc like the freshly sharpened blade of an axe.

He was in motion again before he could second-guess himself, rounding the bonfire he'd stopped at, barely noticing that his neck was prickling with sweat in the heat, until he suddenly bumped into Lancelot. In any other situation he would have laughed, clapped his fellow knight on the back and asked him if the girls had given up trying to win him over for a dance, but right now, he barely spared him a second glance.

"Gwaine?" Lancelot asked, confused, but Gwaine barely heard him, the sound of his voice echoing in his ears as though from a great distance. Gwaine paid him no heed, just strode around him and jogged towards the treeline, leaving the bonfires behind.

The night air descended around him like a cloak, engulfing him in surprising coolness after the warmth of the fires—his eyes were slow in adjusting to the darkness, and oddly-colored afterimages of dancing flames kept flickering across his vision whenever he blinked. But he didn't stop until he reached the treeline, and a sudden gust of wind whipped his hair out of his face, the trees groaning as though in protest. Leaves rustled all around him, and the branches seemed to reach for him as Gwaine stepped around an ancient oak and peered into the darkness behind.

His first thought was that the wreath of ivy in the Green Knight's hair didn't look all that out of place here, barely two furlongs from the villagers' Beltane feast. Then he thought that the man seemed to have been waiting for him—he'd been leaning against the tree, arms folded across his chest, but now he was pushing himself away from the trunk. He took a single step towards Gwaine, his arms hanging loosely at his sides as if he'd consciously chosen the least threatening position, and then he just stood there, and let Gwaine look at him for a long moment.

In the dim light, his clothes looked darker, although Gwaine could see that they were still the same arrangement of different shades of green that he'd worn at the feast. If anything, he might actually have been wearing the same clothes back then—it was all there, the sturdy vest and the shirt, the belt with the huge battle axe and the finely spun trousers, tucked neatly into leather boots. The axe's blade was gleaming in the moonlight, though, rather than shimmering dully from underneath a coat of rust and moss.

"I found you," Gwaine said at last, a bit stupidly, his wits still dulled by residual alcohol. It didn't seem to matter _what_ he said, as long as he just broke the silence, because the man was just looking back at him, his calm stare never leaving Gwaine's eyes as though he'd be content to stand there and hold his gaze until dawn.

"You found me," the Green Knight agreed, and inclined his head—his voice was still the same, raspy and strangely warm, although he'd pitched his tone low, like he didn't want to disturb the nocturnal quietude of the forest, in spite of the celebration going on in the clearing.

Gwaine found himself grinning for some reason, and a strange liquid sensation ran through his stomach, the release of a tension that he hadn't even noticed until it snapped. A faint breeze was stirring the Green Knight's hair, and he could see the ivy peek out from between black strands, the leaves shimmering even in the dim light.

The handle of the axe was also wrapped up in green twines, but with the way the Green Knight was keeping his hands well clear of it, Gwaine didn't think he was in for a fight, or at least not yet. The thought made him grin even more widely, and he propped a casual hand on his hip, giving the man a slow once-over. "Fancy a dance?"

Cocking his head, the Green Knight smiled at him, eyes narrow and amused, strangely fey in the smooth angular planes of his features. His face was just as beardless as it had been the day of the feast, but he didn't look young—if anything, a beard probably would have made him look younger than he seemed right now.

"Not a dance of _that_ sort, if that's what you're asking," he replied, tilting his chin towards the bonfires, and Gwaine couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him. The Green Knight smiled back, a twitch of his mouth that was short-lived but genuine, like he was quietly pleased about Gwaine's mirth.

Vaguely, Gwaine remembered the ivy-engulfed houses he'd seen, the sturdy twines and lush green leaves that had obviously been coaxed to grow by magic. He hadn't been scared then, and oddly enough, he wasn't scared now either, although he was well aware that if the Green Knight truly had magic, he could have killed Gwaine with a flick of his wrist before he'd begun to reach for the dagger he wasn't even wearing.

There was a rustle of grass behind him, and Gwaine probably would have whirled around if the Green Knight's right hand had so much as stirred towards his axe; but his stance remained completely at ease, and so Gwaine didn't even twitch. " _You_ ," Lancelot's voice said at his back, but he didn't sound angry or threatening, just surprised and a bit wary.

The Green Knight gave Lancelot a quick, assessing glance, to check whether he posed any threat, and seemed to dismiss him after a second's thought. His gaze returned to Gwaine, and this time he almost felt it, a noticeable but gentle weight settling on his shoulders like a thick padded cloak.

There was a short, heavy silence, only disrupted by the distant crackle of the fires and bits and pieces of jaunty tunes, swept over to the treeline by the wind. Gwaine felt his heart thud against his ribs, beating out an uneven rhythm, and he found that for some reason he couldn't look away from the Green Knight's eyes. They were green, which was not surprising in itself, but they didn't reflect the firelight, and the longer he looked, the darker they seemed to get, like a fathomless well plummeting down and down into the chasm of time with no hopes of ever reaching the ground.

More footsteps came from behind him, and this time Gwaine disengaged his gaze with some difficulty—Merlin, Arthur and Leon were walking towards them with quick strides, Arthur's hand immediately twitching towards his belt once he caught sight of the Green Knight. With detached amusement, Gwaine noticed that Leon did the same, and both of them looked slightly distressed once they realized they'd come to the celebrations unarmed. Merlin's mouth had fallen open in surprise a second ago, and now he quickly glanced from Arthur to the Green Knight and back, his stance straightening.

It could only have been a trick of the light, but it looked like Merlin stepped closer to Arthur, almost in front of him, as though to protect him in case the Green Knight suddenly took a swing at him with his axe. Fortunately the prince didn't notice, since Gwaine was certain that if he had, Merlin would have gotten shoved back about two seconds ago. Come to think of it, Merlin's features looked strangely closed off, his usual expressiveness hidden behind a wary shroud and a flicker of curiosity. He looked like he was prepared to react to whatever the Green Knight's next step would be, but like he didn't really _want_ to come to blows with him. Which didn't make sense, Gwaine thought, frowning a little—the man was just as broadly built as Arthur, although he was more on the lithe side.

The Green Knight was looking at Merlin as well, recognition flickering across his features for the briefest of moments. "You need not worry, Emrys," he said, and inclined his head. He didn't bow, but he might as well have—the gesture said more than a bow anyway, and Gwaine was surprised at the respect in his eyes when he looked up again. His face was intent and calm, and almost smiling, as though he felt genuinely honored by Merlin's presence. "I do not intend to harm you."

 _Emrys?_ Gwaine wondered silently, and saw Arthur give Merlin a puzzled look as well. It was odd to hear the Green Knight slip back into the same formal speech pattern he'd used at the feast, while he had sounded fairly colloquial even during those short few sentences he'd exchanged with Gwaine, although Gwaine couldn't quite place his accent.

Merlin didn't reply; the wariness on his face hardened and he edged closer to Arthur again, but this time the prince noticed. He exhaled an audible, exasperated sigh, though the glance he gave Merlin was more offended than irritated, and took a pointed step away from his manservant, straightening up and squaring his shoulders as he met the Green Knight's gaze squarely.

"What is your business here in Maneshale?" Arthur asked, courteously enough, but in the commanding tone of somebody who was used to having his questions answered. "I should think you troubled these villagers enough when you disposed of their lord."

Gwaine flinched a little, barely holding back a grimace—he had to give it to Arthur, he didn't mince his words when he meant business. His eyes looked cold and flat as stone in the dim light, and Gwaine recognized what he'd dubbed the prince's court mask in the hardened line of his jaw. Leon took a careful step towards Arthur's other side, and from the way he looked over Gwaine's shoulder for a moment, Gwaine knew he'd locked eyes with Lancelot, though whether in warning or reassurance, he couldn't tell.

The distant serenity in the Green Knight's gaze didn't waver, but if Gwaine hadn't been looking at him so closely, he would have missed the brief, nearly unnoticeable flicker of remorse that flashed through his eyes, like sparks disappearing into a void. It gave him only a moment's pause, though, because after a second he spoke again, his voice decisive, although strangely subdued at the same time. "My quarrel is not with you, your majesty."

Gwaine did a slight double take at the honorific, but Arthur didn't so much as blink. "You murdered Sir Ricbert, Sir Gromer Somer Joure, Sir Gilbert de Venables, and God knows how many others that we haven't found yet," he retorted, listing the names with cold precision, and a distant corner of Gwaine's mind silently commended him for even remembering them. "Your quarrel _is_ with me."

"The Man of the Summer Day would have been usurped before long," the Green Knight countered, and for the first time Gwaine heard a hint of steel in his voice too. "His people are better off without him."

With mild surprise, Gwaine realized that he was talking about Sir Gromer Somer Joure, although by a different name. Arthur caught on fairly quickly as well, judging from how his features hardened almost imperceptibly, but he didn't reply right away—he shifted his weight, broadening his stance in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

"You seem to pick your fights very carefully," Arthur said after a short pause, apparently not willing to let the matter go just like that, even if he might secretly have agreed. "Why else would you only attack potential vassals of Camelot?"

The steel disappeared, and when the Green Knight spoke again he sounded subdued once more—almost as though he'd been anticipating this conversation for a long time, and found himself unaccountably tired of how often he'd turned it over in his mind. "They are not fights, your majesty, and I have attacked no one who didn't know what he was getting into when he faced my challenge."

This time Arthur noticed the honorific, and twitched as though to chase away an annoying fly. "I'm not king yet," he stated, and Gwaine was surprised to hear the prickly irritation undermining the prince's tone, an uncomfortable, almost guilty inflection that sounded thoroughly foreign in Arthur's voice.

The Green Knight smiled at that, and the ivy rustled in his hair when he cocked his head. "Aren't you?"

Spurred by a dangerous spark in his eyes, Arthur opened his mouth, ready to cut the Green Knight down to size with harsh words, forbidding him to ever disregard his father's authority again. But then the words seemed to sink in, and after a long look at the Green Knight's untroubled eyes revealed no taunt, Arthur remained silent, although a muscle in his cheek twitched.

It might have been a trick of the dim light, but a slow flush seemed to be creeping up his neck, like he'd noticed that everyone was carefully avoiding each other's eyes, and no one else spoke up in the king's defense either. Merlin was looking at Arthur, though, and while his gaze seemed sympathetic, a soft, absent smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth, like he had seen this coming all along.

"I see you have brought Camelot's finest fighters with you," the Green Knight stated, startling them out of the brief, uncomfortable silence. When Gwaine looked at him again, his gaze was skimming all of them, resting briefly on each knight as though to silently appraise their strengths and weaknesses. The barest dipping of his head included Merlin in the statement as well, and this time Gwaine saw Merlin's ears redden at the tips, although he didn't flinch from the man's green eyes and held his head high.

After a moment, the Green Knight rested one hand on his axe, the movement oddly impressive after he'd stood in complete stillness for so long. "I regret that I did not get to sample the strength of the court," he continued, and while his voice was jovial enough, he still seemed to choose his words carefully, "although I would not be averse to being granted a second chance to do so now."

Despite the tension in the air, Gwaine didn't even try to suppress his grin. Carefully veiled the challenge might have been, it was a challenge nonetheless, and by the straightening of backs all around him, the others recognized it as well. Somebody less proud might have backed down and used the way out that the Green Knight was ever-courteously providing them with, especially if one considered the fact that magic seemed to be afoot, if the ivy-covered houses were anything to go by.

Arthur just drew himself up to his full height, though, leveling a haughty glance at the man before him. "You proposed an exchange of one blow for another at the feast," he said, his voice decisive, leaving no room for argument—a subtle hint at the rest of them to back off and let him handle this. "Are your conditions still the same?"

"They are, your majesty," the Green Knight confirmed, and this time Arthur didn't protest. "I see that all of you are unarmed, as befits an evening such as this, and I will lend my weapon to whomever chooses to wield it."

He drew his axe in a smooth, practiced motion, and propped the handle up on the ground, resting his hands on the poll much like he had at the feast. The axe looked fairly heavy, fit to cleave a skull in two if wielded with both hands—Gwaine eyed the ivy a bit warily, but somehow he didn't think it would grow up his arms and strangle him if he so much as touched the handle. He had no idea why, but he didn't even want to convince himself that the Green Knight would cheat, that there was some sort of trap hidden beneath his straightforward words.

"Good," Arthur said, and Gwaine flinched, startled out of his thoughts. The prince stepped forward like Gwaine had known he would, but he still couldn't suppress the irrational disappointment that welled up in him—he had missed his chance at the feast as they'd been interrupted by Uther, and it seemed foolish to try to contest Arthur's claim on the challenge now.

Merlin hissed something that Gwaine didn't quite catch but that sounded like _don't_ ; predictably, Arthur ignored him. "I accept the terms and will face your challenge."

To Gwaine's surprise, the Green Knight didn't look thrilled or even impressed. He just gave Arthur a long, searching look, took in his ready stance and the firm assurance with which he met his gaze, and finally let out a long sigh, like he'd known that Arthur might step up, but had hoped that he wouldn't.

Merlin's face looked paler than normal in the moonlight, and Gwaine saw that he had his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his gaze flickering back and forth between Arthur and the Green Knight, like he was mentally preparing himself to intervene. Arthur seemed a bit puzzled that his words weren't met with more enthusiasm, but for a moment the Green Knight looked torn, a deep-seated distress flashing through his eyes. He inhaled deeply, like he already regretted his next words, but knew that they needed to be said.

"My axe," he began, stroking a careful finger down the blade as though to test its sharpness, "does not tolerate dishonesty."

For a moment nobody spoke, and somebody, perhaps Leon, drew in a sharp breath as the carefully-veiled insult sunk in. Arthur stared at him, fairly stunned before the words fully registered with him—Gwaine braced himself when his eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, but the prince was intercepted before he could speak.

"How can you hope to face this challenge," the Green Knight continued, almost imploringly now, "when you can be honest with the maiden whose heart belongs to your best knight—," and Gwaine wasn't all that surprised to see him glance at Lancelot, "—but not with yourself?"

His green eyes came to rest on Merlin for a long moment before they returned to Arthur, spanning the distance between them with the slowness of heavy meaning. Gwaine saw Merlin's throat bob as he swallowed, but he carefully kept his features from betraying any emotion, so that when Arthur followed the Green Knight's gaze to him, he was prepared for the exchange of a confused glance.

"Watch your tongue," Arthur said coldly, his voice like the lash of a whip. He seemed more baffled than offended—he was probably wondering how the Green Knight had known about Lancelot, though the full meaning of the words escaped Gwaine.

And they had to be holding at least a measure of truth, since Arthur didn't protest—the Green Knight inclined his head at him, though, looking like he almost regretted having dealt that low blow. The prince's flush was more pronounced now, and after that brief look, he appeared to take great care to avoid so much as glancing in Merlin's general direction. Merlin shifted closer to him again, although he seemed distinctly uncomfortable as well.

There was a short, somewhat puzzled silence as the exchange ground to a halt, and nobody seemed to know how to defuse the awkward tension in the air. At least Arthur wasn't insisting on rising to the challenge—something about the Green Knight's words must have thrown him off-kilter, shocked him out of his usual stubbornness. A quick glance revealed that Lancelot had blushed a deep red, looking even darker because of his tan, and was studying the tips of his boots like they were the most interesting things he'd ever seen. Leon's eyes, on the other hand, were flickering back and forth between Merlin and Arthur, and Gwaine thought he looked strangely knowing, although he wasn't sure why.

At any rate, it seemed to fall to him to graciously save the day. He straightened up, and took a deep breath of the cool night air, pleased to feel that the vague haziness of wine had almost entirely left his head by now. At any rate, he was nowhere near drunk enough not to be able to wield an axe anymore, especially one this large—his aim would have had to be seriously off if he didn't manage to hit _something_ with the wide reach of that blade.

"Well, then," Gwaine stated, quite cheerfully, and rubbed his hands in anticipation, kneading his fingers to get them warmed up. All eyes shifted to him, but he ignored them, looking only at the Green Knight, unable to fight down a grin when their gazes met. "How about someone who doesn't need to be honest with anyone but himself?"

He ignored both Lancelot's startled intake of breath and the shocked dismay on Merlin's face, and didn't even look at the offended outrage that was surely etched across Arthur's features. Leon just sighed a little, like he'd seen this coming for a long time and didn't necessarily approve of it, although he made no move to stop Gwaine when he stepped forward.

The Green Knight gave him a careful, narrow-eyed look, lingering on his squared shoulders and his easy, unafraid stance, like he wanted to glean as much as possible from his body language. It felt strange to be appraised so thoroughly, as if his outer layers were peeled back and carefully laid aside by the man's eyes alone, but it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. He had nothing to hide, after all, and so he just stood still despite the urgent rush of excitement that swept through him, and let him look all he liked.

Finally their eyes met again, and although the Green Knight's slow smile took Gwaine by surprise, he realized that he'd passed at least this first test. "There is much strength in you that you have yet to use," he said, pensively, and Gwaine's thoughts flashed back to another day, a brittle-looking wooden bridge and its keeper who had worn the crackle of magic like a cloak, and who had told him something similar.

He shrugged off the memory, and spread his hands in invitation; unlike that guy, he was fairly sure that the Green Knight wouldn't resort to transforming his weapon into a _flower_ , of all things. "Fancy testing it?"

The Green Knight's smile widened into a grin, and he hefted up his axe with one hand, as though it weighed nothing at all, and offered it to Gwaine hilt first. "Be my guest."

The wooden handle felt strangely warm when Gwaine wrapped his fingers around it, and although the muscles in his forearm twinged in protest, he managed to hold it up one-handed as well. To his surprise, the ivy was not in the way at all, and he couldn't even feel its twines on the smooth wood—it was almost like it was growing _out_ of the handle, rather than _on_ it. Which wasn't possible, of course, but he'd seen stranger things in his day.

He hefted it up experimentally, testing the solid weight pressing into his palm, the perfect balance of the weapon despite the heavy blade. One of the ivy leaves tickled the inside of his wrist, and a surge of prickling heat went through him at the feather-light touch—it felt almost like a caress, like the touch of something warm and pulsing with life.

"Remember," the Green Knight said quietly, like he didn't want to jolt Gwaine out of his contemplation of the axe. "I will not flinch from the blade, but you must choose carefully where you place the single stroke."

His mind already on the task ahead, Gwaine only nodded absently. The Green Knight stood stock still before him like he'd said he would, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He didn't seem to have so much as tensed, although Gwaine was now scrutinizing him, letting his slow, assessing gaze travel across the man's broad shoulders and deep chest, his surprisingly lithe waist and the way he hadn't even widened his stance to steady himself.

He glanced around at the others, taking in the suspicion on both Leon and Arthur's features, and the sheer disbelief in Lancelot's eyes, his expression plainly saying, _you're not really going to do this, are you?_ , and Gwaine found himself smiling a bit when he realized just how familiar he was with that look. Merlin seemed tense and worried, and he shook his head just slightly when their eyes met, like he couldn't quite believe that Gwaine was really going to do this.

Gwaine tore his gaze away to refocus it on the Green Knight, narrowing his eyes in thought. It would be best to aim for his neck, by far the most vulnerable point on his body, since his goal was to render the man incapable of rising again, if he remembered the challenge correctly. If he swung the axe with both hands, he might build up enough force to get halfway through his neck, although he'd have to rely on his strength for the rest of the way, especially since he'd be aiming to sever his head with one stroke alone.

He broadened his stance and tightened his hold on the handle that was smooth and warm in his palms, his grip surprisingly secure despite the polished shine of the wood. A familiar predatory excitement was surging through him, heating up his blood far more than even the most potent wine could. It would be a shame to chop off a head as good-looking as this one, but if the guy insisted on it... And well, there was something magical about him, if the ivy was anything to go by, so he might not even end up dying anyway. He'd still need to deal out that other blow in return, after all.

"One blow?" he asked nevertheless, just to confirm that the man hadn't suddenly come to his senses, while he found himself hoping that he hadn't.

Brief amusement flickered across the Green Knight's features, mixed with a strange sort of pride, like he appreciated the fact that Gwaine had given him a way out, although he didn't intend to take it. "One blow."

Gwaine nodded, partly in acknowledgement and partly out of budding respect—the Green Knight still didn't look at all afraid or even remotely worried, which might of course just have meant that he didn't think Gwaine was that much of a threat, not even with the massive axe he was holding. The thought made him want to grin, although it was easy to suppress the somewhat inappropriate reaction this time. Well, he'd show him.

He took a deep breath and let it out, then another one, and with his next exhale he stepped forward, two quick paces that reminded him of the evening's dances in a tiny, unoccupied corner of his mind. The axe seemed to get heavier as he swung it, but his hands felt like they'd been fused to the handle, and his grip did not slip. His hair was whipped out of his face by his own speed when he shifted his weight, spinning around on his heel to gain as much momentum as possible before he aimed the weapon at the Green Knight's unprotected neck.

The blade cut through the air with a faint whistle, a wide arc of brightness when it reflected the moonlight, and the momentum was so great that Gwaine didn't really feel the impact when it struck. He had half expected the blade to get stuck as soon as it encountered bone, but there was nothing, except for a faint vibration traveling through the handle and up his arms. With how loudly his blood was roaring in his ears, he didn't hear the crunching squelch when the blade cut neatly through muscle and bone, but he felt the moment it came out on the other side. The supple, yielding resistance of blood-filled tendons gave way, and Gwaine staggered, trying to rein in his momentum and not trip forward into the Green Knight's still standing body.

There was a muffled thump when the severed head hit the ground, and the Green Knight stumbled forward, his steps imbalanced as his body fought to remain upright and not to fall to his knees. Gwaine stood still, breathing hard with exertion even from that single blow, and somehow didn't feel the need to look away from the blood that was running down the green tunic in trickling spurts, looking almost black in the dim light.

Merlin had his hands half-raised, as though to clap them over his mouth in case his stomach did decide to rebel after all. His face had gone so white that it looked almost translucent in the moonlight, and Gwaine felt a brief, absent stirring of fondness when Merlin nevertheless refused to look away. Lancelot looked a bit pale under his tan as well, but his expression was one of disbelief, rather than disgust—Gwaine found it mirrored by Leon when he glanced at the other knight. Arthur's expression was a grimace of stoicism, not allowing any reaction to show other than the minute tightening of his jaw.

But the Green Knight's body didn't fall. And _didn't fall_ , and Gwaine frowned when that fact finally registered with him, the thought pushing through the residual exhilarated energy that thrummed through his veins. It was bending down, to be sure, folding in on itself slowly until one knee hit the ground with a soft noise, much like the thump when his head had fallen. Merlin let out a choked noise when he was granted a full view of the wound, and made a vague movement like he'd rather take at least a step back, but he stayed put, nailed to the spot by the gruesome sight before him.

An arm extended as the torso bent forward, and for a moment Gwaine thought he'd finally topple forward into the dew-covered grass—but no, he was actually reaching out, his fingers finding the tousled mop of his own hair on the ground. They fisted in it, gently, careful not to dislodge the ivy, and then he straightened back up with a fluid, graceful motion, and stood with his head cradled between his hands, holding it like a shield in front of his chest.

Gwaine suddenly realized that his mouth was hanging open, and only managed to close it after a stern command to his jaw muscles. Leon looked like he was berating himself for not having any weapons on him; he'd edged closer to Arthur, apparently prepared to protect the prince with his fists if worse came to worse. The Green Knight wasn't so much as turning towards him, though; Gwaine saw his hold on his head tighten, almost like he was regaining his equilibrium. Nobody spoke, and the rustling of leaves and the faraway crackle of the bonfires were the only sounds that broke the silence.

He nearly took a step back when the green eyes suddenly focused on him, but much like Merlin, Gwaine found himself rooted to the ground. At least he'd been right in assuming that there was something supernatural about the man, he thought hazily, watching in mute, though mildly horrified fascination as the man's lips parted and he spoke.

"That was one well-aimed blow, Sir Gwaine," the Green Knight said—his mouth was moving, articulating words that he shouldn't have had the breath to form, but even through his shock, Gwaine heard the appreciative pride in his tone. "I think that out of all those who have had me taste the bite of my own axe, your strength alone is fit to be put to the test."

Despite himself, Gwaine blinked, not quite understanding what the man was getting at; his strength had already been tested, he'd chopped his head from his shoulders with a single stroke of the axe. Upon closer inspection, the wound looked clean and well-cut, clearly inflicted by a duly sharpened blade, and Gwaine remembered with what little resistance his blow had been met. He'd put his everything into it, thinking that if there was indeed something magical in his opponent, he'd need to summon his full strength to best it. But no matter what else the Green Knight might be, his body, at least, was of flesh and blood like any other's.

"Still, you must not forget the conditions that we agreed on," the Green Knight went on, and Gwaine shook himself out of his thoughts, reminding himself that now was not the right moment to remember how easy it had been to severe his head from his neck. "You have dealt me one blow, which I have received without flinching, and in due time you shall receive another in return."

He seemed to think for a moment, and Gwaine saw his brow furrow under his tousled hair as he was given a slow once-over, like the Green Knight was weighing his options one last time before finally coming to a decision. "You shall meet me at my home when you're ready, and I will wait for you there," he said at last, and Gwaine nodded automatically, remembering the terms of their agreement. A brief smile flickered across the man's face—Gwaine got the feeling that the Green knight would have inclined his head to him in acknowledgement, had he still been able. "Much time has passed since the Green Chapel was last graced by visitors, but I am confident that you will find it."

"So you haven't invited most of the other noblemen after all? Is that what you're saying?"

Merlin looked slightly uncomfortable when Gwaine glanced at him in surprise, as though the words had tumbled out of his mouth without his consent and he was a bit embarrassed at suddenly finding himself at the center of attention. The Green Knight shifted his hold on his head, turning it a bit to get Merlin into his line of vision, and Gwaine fought down the inappropriate urge to laugh.

There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other, but finally the Green Knight just said, "Well deduced, Emrys," and bowed to him, which looked somewhat odd, given that his head was no longer sitting on his shoulders. Merlin went even paler when he was afforded another glance of the blood slopping out of the stump of the man's neck, but Gwaine had to give him some credit—he didn't look away.

"I hope that nothing I have done has earned me your displeasure," the Green Knight went on, and Gwaine frowned at the sudden caution in his tone—he was choosing his words carefully, and the look he gave Merlin seemed almost apologetic.

Merlin just gaped at him for a moment, but the Green Knight remained silent, obviously awaiting his response, and so Merlin finally shook his head, not quite seeming to trust his voice. It was strange to see the Green Knight's features light up at that, and he sounded oddly happy when he said, "You and your companions are cordially invited to grace my home with your presence as well, when Sir Gwaine comes to seek my retribution."

Arthur cleared his throat pointedly, like he'd had quite enough of being ignored at last. Gwaine suppressed a smile when the Green Knight only spared him a short glance, but just a second later he found himself blinking in confusion when he found himself pinned by the man's green gaze again.

He held out one hand towards Gwaine, palm facing upwards; Gwaine just stared at it for a moment, vaguely noticing that there was no blood on the callused skin, and barely managed to curb the stupid urge to ask whether he finally wanted to take him up on that offer of a dance. Then he noticed that he was still gripping the axe, and hurriedly moved to hold it out for the Green Knight to take back hilt first.

Gwaine did a double take when he followed the weapon with his gaze—the Green Knight somehow managed to attach it back to his belt one-handed, but that wasn't what had caught Gwaine's attention. The blade had been slick and shiny with blood before, but now it looked like it had at the feast—rust seemed to have eaten through the metal, and moss was slowly creeping over the silver engravings as he looked on.

"Farewell, your majesty," the Green Knight said, jolting Gwaine out of his amazed stare. He was bowing to Arthur, who simply nodded in response, looking a bit unsure just what was expected of him.

And if Gwaine had thought that watching moss grow with supernatural speed had been weird, seeing the man tuck his severed head under his arm now wasn't all that reassuring either. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lancelot shake his head slightly as though in a futile attempt to wake himself up from whatever strange dream he was having.

The Green Knight measured each of them with a final glance, although his eyes lingered on Gwaine for a moment longer. The look he gave Merlin seemed oddly grateful, like it really mattered to him not to have brought his disapproval upon himself, even though he'd grossed him out quite a bit by letting his head get chopped off. Judging from Merlin's slightly puzzled nod, he didn't quite know why his disapproval should matter to the Green Knight either.

Nobody spoke as they watched him turn and walk away into the forest, branches cracking and twigs snapping in his wake. The mossy ground muted his steps, though, and after a while the sounds of his departure were swallowed up by the incessant rustling of leaves overhead, the leaves stirred by a breeze that didn't reach the ground.

It was like a veil had been lifted. Gwaine became aware of the sounds of the feast once more, drifting over to where they were standing beneath the treeline, and he shook himself a little, feeling like he'd woken from a long dream. He caught Leon's eye over Arthur's shoulder, and was somewhat relieved to see his confusion mirrored on the other knight's face—after all, it was reassuring to know that he wasn't the only one wondering what the hell had just happened.


	5. Of Truces and Trials

_What the sorceress doesn't know is that the connection between them works both ways._

 _When she bound him, he'd thought she would leave, retreat back to wherever she came from and watch her enchantment unravel from afar, but she didn't. He can still feel her, a brittle, flickering presence shut away in the darkest recesses of his forest, her magic like the jagged edge of a knife embedded deep within the earth. It feels like splintered light and tastes like smoke, and it's nothing like the magic that buried him in the forest ages ago and stretched his soul until it embraced the trees._

 _He does not know why she stayed, but he sees no reason to chase her away with the howls of his hounds and the ravens' hoarse caws. Maybe she has nowhere else to go, or maybe it's just that the unbending will he felt in her has finally given way._

 _She does not move much. The days have grown warm enough for her to sleep beneath the trees, curled so close to the ancient roots that she wakes with moss in the black tangles of her hair. She drinks from a nearby stream and eats what she shoots, her marksmanship still perfect despite the bone-deep exhaustion that her mind emits._

 _Sometimes she dreams. Images rise from her subconscious mind, drifting lazily like bubbles of air floating towards the surface of still waters, images of golden curls and dark eyes, intent and calm and almost smiling, and it is usually her own screams that wake her. Her magic lashes out then, unfettered and raw, imploding with a tangible wave of power that he feels with every inch of his new skin._

 _The smell of burned earth and scorched wood accompany her sobs deep into the night, but when she wakes next, grass is once more gleaming in the morning sunlight, the bark of the trees as healthy and hale as they were at nightfall._

 _At first he grew angry with each crackle of untrained power that pulsed from her in her sleep, angry on behalf of his forest, not caring about the pain that came to his mortal body with each eruption, painting a whiplash line of fire down his spine. But he has spent months under her command, nestled as closely to her mind as she would probably never allow if she were aware of it, and little by little, he has come to understand._

 _He pities her, mad with unnameable grief as she is, well aware that she can no longer control the black, hopeless rage that oozes out of her in billowing waves. It feels like smoke, acrid and burning as it brushes the countless places where his consciousness is wrought into the grass and the trees._

 _They say that flames burn the brightest just before they gutter out, after all, and he is not all that surprised to find that she doesn't bother shutting him out of her consciousness, let alone concealing her presence from him. She is not the first sorceress to underestimate him, to think she knows the limits of his power after perusing books of folklore and songs. But in a way, he understands; in her mind, there is no room for failure._

 _She has given him a task to complete, but he is no longer as constrained by her command as he used to be, now that Sir Gwaine of Caerleon has given him a loophole. The thought of testing him, of sampling the youthful, exuberant strength that sung to him like a siren's song, makes his blood run faster, his foreign heart beat out a quicker rhythm against his ribcage. And test him he will, now that the lad has stepped up and boldly faced his challenge with an unquenchable thirst for adventure in his eyes._

 _For now, though, he has returned home to lie low and wait. Having worn countless disguises even in his lifetime, it is easy to rearrange this mortal shell to better suit the task of enlisting the help of other trusted allies. His hawks protested, as did his deer—hadn't they served him faithfully for centuries, and hadn't they done a marvelous job at keeping an eye on the golden prince and his entourage?—but at the same time they knew that some things, they cannot do._

 _The druids know of him, they've remembered his tale through countless generations to be memorized in song, and he can think of no one better suited to the task at hand. The once and future king is safe with Emrys, but the others, led by Mægen and Sōsfæstnes—or Sir Percival and Sir Elyan, as they're called by mortals—are not, and neither is the lady who is roaming the lands in search of a man._

 _He will do his best to guard them to safety in these hostile lands, although through the druids. The disguise will serve him well, as will the house. There is nothing to do but wait, wait for his challenger to come to him, heralded as he will be by Emrys' magic blazing a beacon of light through his forest._

 _In this, at least, the past centuries have served him well; he is nothing if not patient._

 

 

The rabbit's little nose twitched as it munched on a patch of particularly juicy grass. Morning mist was hovering in the small glade, obscuring the treetops overhead although the dawning sunlight was valiantly trying to push its rays down into the clearing; still, the billowing fog seemed to be enough to make the rabbit feel safe. Its ears turned this way and that, listening for any disruptions of the forest's waking sounds, but it had burrowed deeply into the dew-covered grass, as if for a languid, unhurried meal.

Well, Arthur thought, shifting a little where he was crouched low in a patch of soggy undergrowth, the rabbit would soon realize how wrong it had been to feel safe at all. He moved to realign the crossbow, very slowly in order not to cause so much as a twig to snap under his weight. He'd been waiting for what felt like forever for something red-blooded and edible to show up, but he'd still waited a while when the rabbit had appeared a few minutes ago. Now seemed like the time to act, though—the rabbit was in his sights, his view of its little brown body unobscured by leaves. It was early enough for no other hunters to be around, and Arthur shifted around until the butt of the crossbow was securely braced against his shoulder, his finger itching to pull the trigger.

The high caw of a hawk sounded overhead, echoing in the clear morning air, and Arthur let out a soft curse as the rabbit darted away, its bobbing white tail disappearing into the shady forest. He lowered his crossbow and rose, relieved for the chance to finally stretch out his legs—wetness had seeped through his trousers, making him uncomfortably cold down in the shade beneath the trees.

He stepped out into the small clearing, looking up at the sky, and sure enough, there were hawks circling above the treetops, calling their shrill cries into the still morning air. Arthur should have been expecting them, really—the inhabitants of Maneshale prided themselves on their falconry, after all—but he'd thought that he'd ventured deep enough into the forest not to be disturbed in his hunting.

With a sigh, he ducked back underneath the trees, preparing himself for another long trudge through the thick, dew-covered undergrowth before he could set his sights on the next unsuspecting forest animal. Sure, they were staying in a tavern, and it wasn't required of him to hunt, least of all on the morning after Beltane. But if they were going to impose on the innkeeper and his wife for another few days until the packhorse's leg healed, Arthur was determined to have their group pull their own weight, to help top up the dwindling supplies.

The forest was quiet around him, only just waking up, although the birds were belting out their songs as though hell-bent on rousing the woods for the new day. He tried to silence the noise he was making, every snapped twig sounding too loud in the hush—even his careful footsteps were probably loud enough to scare any and all game away. Somebody else usually did that for him, though, and Arthur found himself smiling absently at the thought of what Merlin would say if he could see him now.

Merlin. Arthur let out a sigh when he felt his mind catch on his manservant like callused fingers on finely-woven fabric, as inevitably as a thrown stone plummeting back down to the ground. To his own surprise, Arthur had slept like a log when he'd finally made it to bed the night before, but his mind had more than made up for it when he'd woken at the first gray light of dawn. He'd hoped that hunting would quell the tumultuous thoughts that tumbled around in his head like stacks of parchment knocked off their shelves, but so far, the results had been less than satisfactory.

It wasn't even that they had argued again what really bothered him—or well, it wasn't _just_ that. He'd known all along that they couldn't even talk to each other in a straightforward way anymore without one of them—usually Arthur—snapping and shouting and finally storming off. But it had been different last night. First Merlin had followed him to the trees, looking _drunk_ , of all things, and then _he'd_ been the one to shout at Arthur, the one to look so frustrated that Arthur still wondered distantly how Merlin had managed to keep from resorting to violence to knock some sense back into his head.

It wasn't how these conversations had used to go between them, and last night the break in the routine had stoked Arthur's anger, spurred by Merlin's insistence that Arthur just had to _listen_ to him. He had listened before, and he hadn't liked what he'd heard, and he'd thought that it was his right to walk away, but apparently Merlin had disagreed.

Carefully picking his way through a patch of gnarled tree roots, Arthur sighed again. It was bad enough how things had gone between them the night before, but even now in the light of the new day, the memory simply wouldn't leave him alone. It was like an itch at the back of his consciousness that Arthur just had to scratch, no matter how hard he tried to steer his mind away from it.

Of course this wasn't the first time since Merlin's confession that Arthur's thoughts had circled the issue like a hawk, but this time there was nothing to distract him, no council meetings to attend and no father to keep calm. A woodpecker started its day's work somewhere in the forest, quick staccato bursts of rapping that echoed through the quietude. It was rather cold under the trees, and Arthur was glad that he'd taken along his coat—he could already tell that the day would be warm, but the morning air was crisp and chilly, now that the sun hadn't yet ventured above the treetops.

He'd thought himself brave, benevolent even, when he'd invited Merlin to talk. Remembering that moment still made him pause; he had thought that it would be everything Merlin had been hoping for these past few months, and only a little bit of his resolution had been born of a residual grudge towards Lancelot. He'd intended to prove to Merlin that he could listen too, _better_ than Lancelot, in fact, but of course Arthur had forgotten to take Merlin's tendency to babble into account, let alone his own temper. He'd found his anger rekindled before it had properly cooled down, and he hadn't known how to keep it from exploding at Merlin again.

Out here in the forest, it was easier to admit than it had been even under Leon's gently inquisitive gaze the day before—but after all those weeks, Arthur was just tired of it all, though he couldn't stop his own cringe at how pathetic that sounded even to his own ears. He wanted it to stop, he wanted things to go back to normal between them, and most of all he wanted Merlin to stop giving him wary looks whenever anyone mentioned magic in their general vicinity. He wanted to stop converting his lingering feeling of betrayal into anger just because he didn't know what else to do with it. It was a pretty good indicator of just _how_ fed up he was with the whole situation that Arthur could admit, if only to himself, that he missed Merlin—missed his idle chatter and his eyerolls, missed how hopeless he was at the simplest of tasks, his complete disregard for propriety, and his friendship.

And well, in retrospect it _did_ seem a bit naive that Arthur had thought himself capable of fixing it all just by commanding Merlin to talk.

He wanted him back, as simple as that, and maybe he'd subconsciously been aiming to invite Merlin back to his side since the feast when he'd told him to attend him. But now he realized for the first time that it wouldn't be easy, and that the whole ordeal had hurt Merlin, too. Arthur had thought himself generous when, time and time again, he'd swallowed down the furious storm of questions and accusations that he'd been itching to unleash at Merlin all this time. In retrospect, though, he wondered if his silence hadn't been even harder to bear for his manservant.

Maybe that was why he'd run to Lancelot before, a voice from the back of his mind supplied helpfully—with Lancelot, Merlin had been sure that he wouldn't be pushed away. And it seemed outright foolish to think that after all this time, a treacherous part of Arthur had expected Merlin to come running back to his side as soon as he so much as crooked a finger.

He knew that certain people had thought him to be little more than an overindulged brat not too long ago, but Arthur hated, _hated_ the thought that being the crown prince of Camelot might have spoiled him enough that he could be truly _astonished_ when there was something—or someone—that eluded his grasp. He knew how to best any opponent in tournaments, he knew how to plan battles and spend endless nights poring over maps in search of strategical advantages—but he did not know how to fight to get back into somebody's good graces, least of all his manservant's.

Merlin had called him out on what Arthur still cringed to even _think_ of as jealousy, and although the thought made him feel sick, he couldn't help but wonder if Merlin had been right to call him entitled.

A hawk's shrill cry pierced the stillness of the air, and Arthur flinched, startled out of his thoughts by the sound—it wasn't usually like him to get so lost in his own mind, especially when he was supposed to be hunting.

He frowned at himself, unable to feel something more acute than weary annoyance at the fact that Merlin was now occupying his thoughts when he wasn't even there, and put a conscious effort into focusing his gaze on the trail. The forest was thinning ahead of him, the treeline receding noticeably even though thorns still snatched at his trousers and he had to brush away a stubborn cluster of twigs before he stepped out into another clearing.

Shafts of morning sunlight pierced the treetops, glossing over the mist that was hovering in the air with a sheen of gold. The undergrowth rustled in the faint breeze that stirred Arthur's hair as though called up by his arrival, and he caught sight of something furry and brown on the other side of the clearing.

He was crouched low in the grass before he fully comprehended what he'd seen, instinct gratefully taking over and erasing all other conscious thought from his mind as he ducked beneath a tangle of bushes. Trying to keep as quiet and still as possible, Arthur lifted his head just enough to peer through the long stalks of grass that swayed in front of him, resting the crossbow on his thigh. Wetness was soaking through the knees of his trousers once more as his eyes searched out the patch of color he'd seen, but he remained where he was, his heart beating a little faster with excitement, the weight of his previous thoughts all but forgotten.

It was a doe, brown fur matted down with droplets of dew—it had probably been there for quite some time, picking its way through the clearing in search of the juiciest patches of grass. One brown ear was turned in his direction, but as Arthur watched, it flickered forward as the doe continued to graze undisturbed, and he knew he hadn't been seen. He lifted his weapon without even looking at it, keeping his gaze on the doe, silently thrilled at the prospect of bringing the innkeeper finest venison in exchange for his hospitality.

The press of wood against his cheek was all too familiar when Arthur carefully shifted the crossbow until the sight was aligned with the shift of muscle in the doe's shoulder. He was sure that he hadn't made any sound, but some hidden instinct must have been tickled by a shift in the air, because the doe lifted its head at last, turning around in the process, and Arthur saw that it was pregnant.

His finger paused on its own accord, slipping off the cool metal of the trigger in the face of the soft roundness of the doe's belly. But what startled him even more was the pair of brown eyes that suddenly locked gazes with his, fathomless and dark under long lashes that blinked slowly and without any hint of fear.

For a long moment, Arthur and the doe just stared at each other. Arthur forgot to duck back down into the grass, and it seemed pointless anyway, since the doe had already seen him. But it didn't dart away into the forest, and neither did it lower its head to graze some more. It simply looked at him, its gleaming eyes calm and alight with a foreign sort of intelligence, as though it knew that Arthur wasn't going to pull the trigger.

He only realized that he'd lowered the crossbow when the cool wood was pressed to his thigh once more, and a distant part of his mind rolled its eyes at the sheer sappiness of the action—he'd never had a problem shooting any woodland creature before, big with young or not.

But there was something in the air that stilled his hands now, a strange shift in the atmosphere that rendered him incapable of doing anything but sitting in the grass and holding the doe's gaze, and for a moment he felt reminded of the moment in the lake near the beginning of the journey. There'd been a doe watching him, too, although it had been too far away for Arthur to tell whether it was pregnant.

Maybe it was the _same_ doe, a corner of his mind wondered, and then just shook his head at himself, wondering where that ludicrous thought had come from.

Something made Arthur look up when he stood slowly, trying not to make any fast movements, but the doe seemed utterly unconcerned. Then he tilted his head back on a whim to glance up at the sky, squinting against the increasingly bright light, and wasn't entirely surprised to see a small flock of hawks, thrown into sharp contrast against the soft blue of the sky.

He counted four of them circling overhead, and tried to keep his eyes on the doe and the birds as he took a careful step out of the bushes he'd crouched down in. The doe still didn't seem at all afraid of him, but the hawks just kept circling high above the clearing, calling out to each other in shrill caws that sounded faint and far away. It was almost as though they were watching Arthur, or maybe protecting the doe, sharp beady eyes tracking his every movement warily.

Arthur shook his head again, and forced himself to avert his gaze back down. He'd woken up with a surprisingly clear head this morning in spite of how little sleep he'd gotten, but maybe these weird trains of thought were an indicator of his mind finally calling for the rest it had been denied last night. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and sternly reminding himself that he'd wanted to _hunt_ , not get sappy over pregnant animals and birds that seemed obsessed with a certain clearing.

And sure enough, when he opened his eyes again he was alone. The doe must have bounded away into the forest without so much as a rustle of leaves, and a glance at the sky confirmed that the hawks were gone as well.

The feeling of being watched lingered, though, like the dew that had seeped through his trousers and made them cling damply to his skin. He couldn't shake off the memory of the doe's intent gaze, alive with an undeniable intelligence that had seemed to assess him thoroughly, only to deem him unthreatening despite his weapon in the end. It hadn't even been an unpleasant feeling, but Arthur hadn't exactly liked it either. He shouldered his crossbow, and decided that although he hadn't actually shot anything yet, it was time to return to the village—it wouldn't do to have the villagers come looking for him.

Merlin probably would have smiled at him if he'd been there, with that proud, curiously soft expression that stole over his features whenever he thought Arthur had done something unexpectedly noble. As far as Arthur was concerned, there was nothing noble in not bringing anything home from a hunt, but he knew of Merlin's ridiculous soft spot for any and all animals that Arthur so much as pointed his crossbow at. He was sure that Merlin would have approved.

And so he was back to square one. Arthur sighed when the distraction melted away, once more leaving his thoughts free to circle around his manservant much like the hawks had done earlier—he'd thought that the hunt would clear his mind, not spur it into brooding even more.

Still, the memory of the previous evening refused to be dislodged when he followed the trail back into the shadowy woods. Merlin would wake up soon enough along with the others, probably with a blinding headache, his body unused even to diluted wine. Maybe Arthur would arrive back at the inn just in time to sit down with them for breakfast, and he and Merlin would studiously avoid looking at each other, pretending that nothing had happened until one of them figured out what step to take next.

The mere thought tired him, but Arthur had no idea how to diverge from the path he saw ahead of them—a path that would be riddled with hidden traps and careful steps once more, until they were both sure their tempers had cooled enough to risk another attempt at whatever it was they were trying to fix between them.

He hated lying low, he was a man of action rather than of useless waiting, but Arthur didn't know how to hurry along the slow, superficial reconciliation that he knew lay in store for them. And so he just sighed and pushed those musings away, trying to concentrate on finding his way back to Maneshale.

Even more than his astonishment at Merlin's anger, though, the memory that clung to him was his touch. He still remembered the way Merlin's hands had fisted in the front of his shirt, his grip surprisingly strong for all his apparent intoxication when he'd whirled Arthur around to face him, as though to get him to listen by sheer physical force. That notion was somewhat laughable in and of itself, given how scrawny Merlin was, but even amidst his confused outrage, an unconcerned part of Arthur's mind had wondered at the strength of his grip, even more than the determined spark in his eyes.

Merlin had used to touch him all the time, if only just to help him dress and brush wrinkles out of the shoulders of his tunics, but until the moment when he'd felt Merlin's knuckles dig into his collarbones, Arthur hadn't realized how much he'd missed that. It had been another shred of normalcy, warped though it had been by Merlin's insistence and his own anger, and in the solitude at the heart of the forest, there seemed no point in pushing the memory away.

Despite the fact that he had no idea how to go about it, Arthur would have to work to get back into Merlin's good graces, just as Merlin had to do with him, and Arthur snorted at the thought, faintly amused despite himself. Not too long ago he would have laughed at the idea of trying to win back a servant's friendship, and in hindsight, he figured that it had probably been necessary for him to reach the end of his tether like this.

He never would have let his mind dwell on the issue for so long if he hadn't been so tired of it, but by now he was almost grateful that he'd allowed those thoughts to run its course. There was nothing he abhorred more than helplessness, after all. And although Arthur still wasn't quite sure what to do, at least he'd been able to admit to himself that he wanted things between him and Merlin to go back to normal, whatever that would entail.

Which, all things considered, was quite enough thinking for the day. Arthur stepped around a tree that stood in his way, dodging a faceful of damp leaves in the process, and winced at the slight twinge he could feel starting up in his temples. Judging from how things had been going between him and Merlin during the past months, they were in for hours of silence, if not more—just because he'd decided that things couldn't go on like this didn't mean Arthur would know how to break it.

But maybe it would get easier as time wore on, or Merlin would see as well that last night hadn't been quite as large a step backwards as he'd thought. And maybe then Arthur would figure out how to dispel a little more of the tension, and somewhere along the line he might be able to take Merlin up on his offer of talking, since he seemed so keen on explaining himself.

How to go about _that_ without losing his temper, though, Arthur didn't know. But well, he was nothing if not stubborn once he'd set his mind on something, and in spite of how crestfallen and submissive Merlin had been all this time, last night had shown that he could give as good as he got. If they needed to shout at each other every step along the way to reconciliation, then Arthur was finally sure that they could both take it.

 

 

When they set out to leave Maneshale two days after Beltane, Gwaine had a hangover.

Well aware that glancing up at the sun would just make the pain in his temples worse, he kept his head down when he stepped out of the protective shadow of the inn's doorway. Being rudely prodded awake around noon by a disapproving Lancelot had just aggravated the headache he'd gone to bed with the night before, and Gwaine didn't even know what he'd done last night to deserve the pounding in his skull.

He couldn't _still_ be suffering from the massive hangover he'd woken up with the morning after Beltane. He'd attempted to cure it with another round of drinking last night, and although that usually worked quite well for him, it had just made things worse this time. His eyes felt like they'd been sandpapered, something slimy seemed to have crawled into his mouth and died when he'd slept, and to top it off, the sight of breakfast had been enough to turn his already sensitive stomach.

Leon's glances of mingled pity and thinly-veiled amusement didn't make it better either. Gwaine grumbled under his breath as he stumbled across the yard to where their horses were tied in a neat row, waiting to be saddled and laden down with luggage. Of all his traveling companions, only Merlin had had the decency to check up on him after Lancelot had left him to ready himself for the day's ride. Gwaine had felt touched, right up until the moment when Merlin had pounced on him, pinched his nose shut and forced a foul-tasting concoction down his throat that he claimed would cure his ailments within the day.

Merlin had dodged the pillow that Gwaine had thrown at him, and ducked out of the room laughing. Apparently he had forgotten just how pathetically hungover _he_ had been the day after Beltane—but well, come to think of it, maybe Gwaine deserved his revenge, what with how much he'd teased Merlin for his nonexistent abilities to hold his liquor.

When he reached the others, Lancelot announced, in an unnecessarily loud voice, that he'd generously brought Gryngolet out of the stables for him, although only under duress. Gwaine just nodded, very carefully, lest his head would actually fall off—it certainly felt like it was about to. The sound of Lancelot's voice and the occasional snort from the horses seemed to reverberate through his skull, plucking at his sensitized nerves like a harpist clumsily tuning his instrument.

Both Leon and Merlin were courteously silent when Gwaine joined them, though, and he found himself grateful. Arthur was still at the inn trying to press some money on the innkeeper and his wife, and Gwaine figured that one had to appreciate small favors, since he was sure that Arthur would have teased him mercilessly as well, had he been there.

When he laid eyes on Gryngolet, though, any and all benevolence he might ever have felt towards the prince evaporated. It was all he could do not to trip over his own feet as he squeezed his eyes shut and stumbled back with a pained groan. Somebody snorted behind him, perhaps Leon, and even through the haze in his mind, Gwaine easily identified the exasperated sigh as Lancelot's. He probably thought he'd had it coming.

He'd known that Gryngolet was a white horse, of course, but Gwaine felt like he'd never truly appreciated that fact until now. He hadn't known true pain until he'd caught sight of the white stallion, his fur a spot of blinding brightness in the sunlight; the afterimage seemed permanently burned into his lids, a vague outline flickering through his vision even with his eyes closed.

Before, he'd thought that Arthur had assigned Gryngolet to his care to test Gwaine's strength of will, but now he was sure that this was the real reason why the prince had given him this particular steed for their journey. Of course he knew that Gwaine liked to drink, and he must have counted on a sunny day such as this to make his life even more miserable throughout a hangover by way of Gryngolet's color.

"You are the bane of my existence," Gwaine told his horse when he'd finally managed to pry his eyes back open, although he took great care to only peer through the protective fringe of his lashes. Someone had saddled and bridled him already, and Gwaine silently thanked whoever that had been, relieved that he wouldn't have to bend down to retrieve the saddle.

Gryngolet just snorted, giving him a look that seemed full of disdain. One of the chambermaids had helped Merlin carry their luggage outside earlier, and Gwaine rummaged through the pile to find his things. The saddlebags felt heavier than usual when he lifted them up, and of course Gryngolet took a neat step to the side when Gwaine turned to him with his armful of leather, the detached arrogance in his eyes transforming into a glare.

Gwaine spent a good two minutes prancing after Gryngolet and trying to heave the saddlebags up onto his back. Every time he hefted them up, the stallion stepped just far enough away to get out of Gwaine's reach, snorting warningly. Gwaine gritted his teeth, his temples twinging even more now, but didn't try to stop Gryngolet's antics until he'd backed himself neatly into Llamrei, who had been nosing along the hem of Leon's coat.

Being the trained warhorse she was, Arthur's mare didn't so much as jump when Gryngolet bumped into her. She just gave him a cool look, as though to say, _don't you even try_ , and Gwaine made good use of the moment's distraction to finally throw the saddlebags over Gryngolet's back.

Through some sort of miracle, he stood still long enough for his rider to tie them to the saddle. But when Gwaine turned back around with his arms full of his bedroll, he couldn't help a groan. Gryngolet had stepped out of Llamrei's shadow and back into the sun, blinking at him innocently as though he had no idea why Gwaine was once more grimacing at the bright stab of agony that pierced his eyes.

"You're an _eyesore_ , that's what you are," Gwaine told him, blinking painfully as he tied the bedroll to the saddlebags. "And I'm sure you're enjoying every moment of my torment."

Gryngolet bumped his head into his rider's shoulder, a bit too harshly perhaps, but at least it didn't seem like he'd aimed to make him keel over into the dust. Gwaine rolled his eyes, which sent another twinge through his temples, but he didn't feel quite as cross with the world anymore. It wasn't the stallion's fault that Arthur had used him to subtly show his disapproval of Gwaine's drinking habits and generally make his life difficult.

As if on cue, Arthur finally emerged from the inn, squinting into the bright sunlight for a moment before heading over to them. Gwaine thought he saw the innkeeper in the shadowy doorway for a moment, smiling after the prince with a faint air of triumph, as though he had successfully dissuaded him from paying him an overly large amount of coins for the few days' stay.

"All set?" Arthur asked as soon as he was within earshot, his appraising gaze flickering across the bedrolls and saddlebags neatly attached to their horses' backs.

There was a general murmur of assent, and Gwaine saw Merlin straighten up from where he'd bent down to tie the last straps of the packhorse's luggage. Its leg had been pronounced healed by the blacksmith yesterday, although he'd advised them to keep a light bandage on to steady it. But the horse seemed eager to get back on the road, if the way it kept snorting excitedly into Merlin's hair was any indication.

"We'll ride past Sanbec first," Arthur told them, walking around Gwaine and Gryngolet on his way to Llamrei; Gwaine thought he gave them a smug look out of the corner of his eye, but wasn't too sure. "We'll wait for Percival, Elyan and the squires in Cogeltone and move on together."

There was a creak of leather next to him as Leon mounted his horse, and Merlin did the same, perhaps a little less gracefully. Gwaine saw now that a few of the villagers were standing on their doorsteps or looking out of opened windows. They were probably sad to see them go—they'd seemed thrilled by so many visitors from far away, especially since all of them had been eager to help with the Beltane celebrations two days before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lancelot wave to somebody before he climbed up into the saddle as well; Gwaine followed his gaze and saw the elderly lady whose house they'd decorated beam back at him. The branches were still fixed to the wall, swaying gently in the breeze that stirred the air, and Gwaine waved at her too, in wistful remembrance of the delicious sweet cider he had refreshed himself with that day.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Gryngolet stepped on his foot.

The day got progressively warmer as they rode on, heat collecting even under the canopy of trees so that they took off their coats one by one, resting them over their horses' backs. Gwaine wasn't the only one to grumble under his breath when the trail led them out of the woods and into a field of swaying grass. His head seemed to grow heavier the longer they rode through the sunlight, and he suspected that he'd need to cut off his left boot by the end of the day, judging from how hot and sore his toes felt. But there was something in the air that lifted his spirits, and it took Gwaine quite a long time to realize that in spite of his hangover and his throbbing foot, he was happy.

Or well, _excited_ , at least. As lovely as Maneshale had been, it felt good to be back on the road, and he was looking forward to meeting up with the others again. As far as he remembered, Arthur had ordered them to check on the vassals near the border; he couldn't wait to hear the stories of whatever mysteries they had encountered, and of course to share his own. It was a perfect day for traveling, even though they rode slowly to preserve the horses' strength in the heat. Gwaine squinted up into the sunlight although it hurt his eyes, smiled absently when he realized that Gryngolet hadn't tried to throw him off even once today, and began to hum a little tune under his breath.

He knew that Arthur was still cross with him for basically having pushed him out of the way at Beltane, and that Merlin didn't understand why he had accepted the Green Knight's challenge so readily. Lancelot kept sneaking him wary glances, as though he attributed Gwaine's high spirits to some leftover alcohol from two nights ago, and was just waiting for Gwaine to realize what an impossible task he had shouldered.

The only one who didn't look at him like he'd gone insane overnight was Leon, but then again, the older knight had always been discreet like that. Gwaine even suspected that he might understand what the others didn't—that he hadn't taken up the Green Knight's proverbial gauntlet out of obligation, or because he wanted to keep Arthur out of trouble, or anything noble and unselfish like that. It had just seemed like a good idea at the time.

When the daylight finally began to fade, they rode until they reached a cluster of trees, seeming wildly out of place in the sprawling flat marshland. It would provide little protection from possible nightly attackers, and the first thing Arthur did when they'd all dismounted was to set up a schedule for watches. Gwaine was just glad to be out of the sunlight at last and off of Gryngolet's back—granted, the stallion seemed to have taken pity on him due to his massive hangover today, but on horseback was not the ideal place to be when your head felt stuffed full with scratchy wool.

Lancelot volunteered for the first watch, and for once Gwaine was simply grateful, instead of battling with the need to tease him for always being so courteous. He gladly agreed to go hunting with Leon in exchange, hoping that some physical exertion would alleviate the dull pounding in his skull. That left Lancelot, Merlin and Arthur to take care of the horses and set up camp, but to his own surprise, Gwaine didn't feel apprehensive about leaving them alone with each other. Lancelot was there, for one, and in spite of the fact that Gwaine's brain had run almost entirely on alcohol these past few days, he'd still been observant.

Something had shifted in the air between the prince and his manservant, although he hadn't seen them talk (or shout, or push each other up against trees, or whatever it was they needed to do to settle things between them). Gwaine couldn't put a name to it, but it gave him hope that they would eventually go back to the close-knit, easy companionship they'd shared before.

And if his gut feeling didn't fool him, they might even go further to being something more.

Gwaine followed Leon out of the trees and into the field of swaying grass, keeping a cursory hand on his dagger although he had no idea what game they could hope to find in such an open expanse of space. He could make out a scraggly patch of dark green on the horizon that looked like a treeline, but it seemed too far away for any forest animals to have come all the way here to graze.

"Oh, now that's just _unfair_ ," he remarked to no one in particular when the grass parted abruptly and his boot struck stone instead of soft, springy earth. The road had practically come out of nowhere, but when Gwaine looked left and right, trying to follow its course with his eyes, he found that he couldn't. Grass and lichen were growing between the stones, but the road was still in good shape, although the pavers were clearly bleached by the sunlight of centuries. He also remembered roads like this from Caerleon.

"Honestly," he continued when Leon didn't react, and tapped his foot on the pavement to emphasize his point. "If there are perfectly decent roads like this in the Northern Plains, why have we been following _forest trails?_ "

Leon gave Gwaine a fleeting smile over his shoulder, probably thinking of Gwaine's repeatedly bumped head, courtesy of Gryngolet and his oh-so-inconspicuous affinity for walking close to trees. "We want to keep a low profile, remember?" Leon replied, ignoring the road completely as he plunged back into the grass on the other side, leaving a visible trail. "Being seen by travelers would be somewhat counterproductive."

Gwaine resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but followed Leon anyway, still keeping an eye out for eventual movement in the undergrowth. He wasn't sure why he was even looking—the grass swayed gently, undisturbed by any wildlife whatsoever, and it seemed to him that they would have to eat up the rest of their field rations tonight.

"Besides, we're lucky enough not to have encountered any spies from Mercia as it is," Leon suddenly spoke up again, his voice grave, like he'd given some more thought to what Gwaine had said. "It's bad enough that our patrols keep getting into skirmishes with Mercian soldiers in Cenred's abandoned lands. We don't want Bayard meddling in the Northern Plains too."

Gwaine just blinked at Leon's back in surprise, and it took the words a moment to sink in simply because Gwaine hadn't thought of that. He'd all but forgotten Cenred's kingdom, and rightly so, he felt, since they were obviously not in it—they'd been sent to the Northern Plains to investigate the deaths of prospective vassals, after all.

But Leon seemed to have thought about the skirmishes in Escetia quite a lot. He was usually so quiet that Gwaine couldn't help but be impressed whenever he did speak, since the words were always carefully thought-out. And right now they made Gwaine think back to the early days of their quest, and he suddenly remembered the innkeeper at Treffynnon—the man had spoken of Mercian patrols as well.

"Well, it's not like the Northern Plains are much to look at, are they?" Gwaine replied at last, feeling somewhat out of his depth—aside from his conversation with Arthur on the first day of their journey, this was the first time he was even thinking about anything like this. He had never discussed matters of strategic importance before, at least not on such a large scale. "They're thinly populated, compared to Camelot, and there aren't any goods that Camelot can't produce as well. Who cares if Bayard gets them?"

"He'll surround Camelot from two sides," Leon pointed out. "Three, if the battles in Escetia go badly for us."

"I thought Camelot and Mercia were at peace," Gwaine muttered, squinting idly into the setting sun. His stomach was rumbling—if they didn't find any game to shoot some time soon, he'd drag Leon back to the copse of trees to at least get some of the field rations.

"They are," Leon said, his voice troubled. "Though maybe not for long. The prince—" But he broke off, looking uncomfortable and a bit sad, like he'd just caught himself thinking about something that he'd been trying to push into the farthest recesses of his mind.

"The prince isn't there to keep the king from sending off one too many rudely-worded, paranoid letter, you mean," Gwaine stated somewhat ruthlessly, uninhabited by the sense of propriety that was keeping Leon from speaking his mind.

But at least Leon was honest enough to nod without objection, although he did sigh heavily, like it pained him to not even protest when his king was spoken of in such a manner. Gwaine just shrugged, squinting into the setting sun. For some reason he found himself remembering Beltane eve, and how the Green Knight had addressed Arthur with a honorific befitting a king—now that Gwaine thought about it, he hadn't been too far off the mark.

As if spurred by the thoughts that strayed to his challenger, the grass swayed in a sudden sharp breeze, and Gwaine had barely looked away from the sun when movement caught his eye at the corner of his vision.

There was a whisper of rustling sound, a blurry patch of brown rising from the grass, and Leon's arm whipped up, raising the crossbow within barely a second, reacting on instinct alone. The muffled sound of impact when the bolt found its mark in the deer's shoulder sounded oddly loud in the still evening air.

Gwaine still hadn't stopped walking when the deer hit the ground with a soft thump, and he couldn't do anything but gape at Leon's back in utter surprise for a moment as the older knight walked over to the fallen animal. There were battle-honed reflexes, and _then_ there was reacting as quickly as Leon just had—for some reason, Gwaine found himself thinking back to Beltane eve yet again, and wondered for the first time if Leon and Lancelot didn't share the position of Arthur's best knight.

"A lone deer, so far away from the forest?" Leon mused, his keen eyes tracking the impressive distance to the faraway treeline. There was no trail of flattened grass to mark the path that had brought the deer here—to all intents and purposes, it could have appeared out of nowhere.

"It's food," Gwaine said reasonably enough, jogging to catch up with him. The deer was of average size, its eyes already dulled with death; even within the split-second it had taken him to react, Leon had aimed well enough to spare it the drawn-out agony of a misplaced crossbow bolt. It would definitely make for a rich dinner for all of them, and Gwaine patted Leon's shoulder in appreciation, although he did take care to wipe any and all traces of impressed respect from his features.

They resolved to butcher the carcass only upon reaching camp—the light was fading more and more, lengthening their shadows and washing the color out of the grass until it looked more gray than green. Gwaine could tell that Leon felt just as uncomfortable as he did, out in an open field in potentially hostile lands during nightfall, and they each took hold of one of the deer's hind legs to drag it back the way they had come.

"How do you think the others are faring?" Gwaine asked at some point, more out of absentmindedness than genuine interest; they'd meet up with Percival, Elyan and the squires the next day, and there would be more than enough time to swap stories.

To his surprise, Leon smiled. "Probably honing their swordsmanship by fighting their way through bandits," he replied, and Gwaine imagined Percival laying into scraggly brigands and breaking their necks with his bare hands. "I've been on patrol near the border before, and in my experience the area is riddled with bands of raiders." He hefted the deer up a little, and his expression grew thoughtful. "I thought it would be the same inland, but we haven't been attacked even once yet."

"Maybe some sort of magical presence is holding off the bandits for us," Gwaine said. He just shrugged amicably when Leon raised an eyebrow at him, although he did notice that Leon seemed puzzled rather than instantly on his guard at the mention of magic. "I mean, magic already seems to be at the heart of all this, what with the ivy and all," he continued, when no objection was forthcoming—truth to be told, he hadn't really expected one in the first place. "Why not assume that it might be helping us too, instead of just terrifying some villagers?"

Leon nodded slowly, and this time Gwaine allowed himself to grin with eager surprise at the fact that he was following his train of thought. "Hunting has also been rather easy," Leon ventured, gesturing down at the deer with his free hand. "I thought it would be harder, especially in flat marshland such as this, but this deer practically sprung up right in front of our noses."

"Thank you, mysterious magical presence!" Gwaine called into the still evening air, his voice echoing through the quietude, and a gust of wind seemed to answer him, whipping his hair into his face with the faraway scent of moss and dried leaves, although the forest was far away.

He sent a meaningful glance towards Leon, as if to say, _see? I told you so_ , and although Leon rolled his eyes, he didn't turn away quickly enough for Gwaine not to see his smile.

 

 

"Let's call a truce," Merlin said, more loudly than necessary, but his voice didn't shake, and he couldn't help but feel proud at least of that.

In the silence that followed, he told himself to be grateful for small favors—Arthur hadn't so much as flinched at the words, although he had yet to look up at Merlin. The whetstone had paused its incessant movement, and the hush seemed loud after the continuous scraping of stone on metal that had woken Merlin in the first place.

Around them, the knights were still asleep. Wan morning light was trickling in through the leafy canopy above them, but the sky was surprisingly cloudy after yesterday's heat—in spite of having curled up in his bedroll, Merlin had woken up with his fingers and toes numb from the cold. He had reluctantly opened bleary eyes to the image of Arthur sitting on a log a few paces away, sharpening his daggers with the absent, well-practiced movements of one who just wanted to occupy his hands.

To go and talk to him had been a snap decision, born of the restless, frustrated energy that he'd been keeping on a tight leash since Beltane. He'd tried to return to that stiff place of poised waiting that his mind had been stuck in all those weeks before their quest, but it hadn't worked—now that they had at least _started_ to talk to (or well, shout at) each other again, he couldn't simply go back again. Taking one step forward and two steps back seemed to come more easily to Arthur, anyway, and after their conversation at Beltane, Merlin found his blood sizzling with the need to simply yank him forward for good.

And so he'd stretched and yawned, making a great deal of noise as he'd walked across the clearing to where Arthur sat, trying to alert the prince to his presence without being too obvious about it. He hadn't even known what he'd _say_ to him, but it seemed as good a time as any to speak, to try to set a few of the things right again that had been knocked askew by his outburst between the fires. Talking would become more difficult as soon as they reached the next village and met up with the others again—and Merlin was nothing if not determined to make good of what time they still had.

Now, though, Merlin was starting to feel slightly guilty for forcing this conversation on the prince this early in the day. Arthur looked tired even in the grayish light of morning, and he glanced up at Merlin for a moment before shaking his head as if he was eternally questioning the extents of his manservant's stupidity.

"Merlin," Arthur sighed, although it sounded more resigned than irritated, like he'd subconsciously expected Merlin to come to him again before long. "Can't you go _three days_ without pestering me?"

The words seemed familiar, but they lacked the customary bite of exasperation, and Merlin swallowed the dull sting of disappointment when he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the grass opposite of Arthur. The ground was damp and cold, and he could feel wetness beginning to creep through his trousers, but he stayed where he was.

"No," he replied, softly now, and heard Arthur scoff before he put the whetstone to his shortest dagger again, dragging it down the blade. Merlin couldn't quite raise his gaze, and so he kept his eyes fixed on where he'd put his hands on his knees. "I've kept my distance for far too long. I thought it would be better, I thought it'd make it easier for you, but..."

Taking a deep breath, he ignored the rhythmic scraping sounds of the dagger being sharpened; he knew very well that Arthur was listening, no matter how preoccupied he pretended to be. "I can't let this go," Merlin finally blurted out, keeping his gaze firmly on the flattened grass just next to Arthur's left boot, because he knew he'd swallow down the rest if he dared to look him in the eye. "I— I can't let _you_ go."

The whetstone paused, and Merlin imagined he could feel Arthur's incredulous gaze resting on him for a moment before the scraping picked up again. His ears felt hot in the crisp morning air—warmth was creeping into his cheeks from the burn of embarrassment at the back of his neck, but the words were out, and he was somewhat grateful that he couldn't take them back again now. Merlin waited, his eyes duly lowered, and felt his hands grow clammy the longer the silence stretched.

At last Arthur sighed again, although it sounded less tired than before, and Merlin fancied he could almost hear a familiar edge of exasperation in it, as though he was rolling his eyes, at least inwardly. But the prince's even voice betrayed nothing when he said, "What kind of truce did you have in mind, then?"

Merlin swallowed again. His stomach was roiling with nervousness, although a hopeful spark was starting to glow in his chest, a pinprick of light taken out of the compartment at the back of his mind and dusted off for just this moment. "You'll stop flying off the handle at me," he replied, trying to keep his tone just as calm and unaffected as Arthur's had been, "and I'll try to think before I talk."

Arthur seemed to turn that over in his head for a while, and Merlin waited with bated breath, a multitude of thoughts zapping through his mind, darting out of reach before he could fully grasp them. Maybe he could have worded that better, maybe he should have waited a bit longer before approaching Arthur again after Beltane—but if he was honest with himself, Merlin was just as tired as Arthur had looked that evening. He was tired of tiptoeing around the issue, tired of the ever-present tension between them, and if the first step in getting them to really _talk_ again fell to him, he was more than glad to take it.

"No mean feat," Arthur finally said; there was a short, tense pause, and then he added in a mutter, more to himself than to Merlin, "On _your_ part, that is."

Startled into looking up, Merlin found his gaze caught and hold by Arthur's, and he couldn't keep his breath from catching when their gazes met. It seemed so long since he'd last looked Arthur squarely in the eye, Merlin thought dizzily, because the familiar blue caught him off-guard now in the strangest way, causing his stomach to flip.

Arthur seemed— guarded, yes, but there was something else there, too, a slow, nearly unnoticeable brightening in his eyes that Merlin didn't dare think looked like hope, the same tentative warmth that was spreading through Merlin as well. There was nothing to do but hold his gaze and wait out the silence, with his heart thundering against his ribs with enough force that he wondered if Arthur could hear it. He found himself smiling, tentatively, but then he looked back down again, not wanting to see Arthur's features hardening into a scowl in response.

"If you... that is, if there's anything you— want to know," he stated awkwardly, and fought down a cringe when he heard the way his voice wobbled, "about me, I mean, and— and my magic, then feel free to ask."

The last words tumbled out on a hurried exhale, and Merlin wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers in the hush that followed. Even the whetstone had stopped its scraping, although the rushing of blood in Merlin's ears made up for the lack of sound. He wondered if Arthur knew what that last sentence had cost him, if he could see the way Merlin's fingers were twitching in quickly-aborted attempts to curl into defensive fists.

He glanced up just in time to see Arthur run a hand through his hair, making it stick up in errant golden tufts, and Merlin frowned a little at his own impulse to smooth it down again. It seemed out of place here in the middle of the woods, and most of all in the middle of this conversation—but like so many other things, being Arthur's manservant seemed to have become an ingrained part of his everyday routine. He hadn't been allowed to take care of Arthur's armor in months, let alone help him dress, but things like that still refused to get shoved into the locked drawer in the back of his mind.

"I don't even know where to start," Arthur replied eventually, sounding resigned but also a little wry, like he couldn't quite believe that they were having this conversation without shouting at each other.

Merlin's heart skipped a beat, and no matter how hard he tried to quell it, the surge of emotion went through him anyway. Surprise, trepidation, and underneath that _hope_ , always hope, because if Arthur didn't know where to start, it meant that he did have questions. He tried to keep his eyes firmly fixed on his hands, although they were trembling now, and fought down his shaky smile with some difficulty.

"Wherever is fine with me, really," he said, his tongue nearly tripping over the hasty assurance. He couldn't think of what would be the right thing to say to coax Arthur further into the conversation, but his mouth kept moving anyway, errant words tumbling out. "I don't— Arthur, I swear I'm not trying to hurry you along, I just want you to know that you can ask me anything, and that we can _talk_ about this—"

His gaze lifted, helplessly and without his consent, and _now_ there was a hint of exasperation in Arthur's expression. The prince was fixing him with a look that told Merlin that he was ruining their manly moment of beginning reconciliation with his babbling, but Merlin couldn't have welcomed it more. This time he let himself smile, and although Arthur dropped his gaze back down to his dagger with a frown in response, Merlin exhaled a small sigh of relief.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment as Arthur examined the knife, scraping a callused fingertip over the blade to test its bite. The crease between his eyebrows looked like it'd been etched into his skin, although he seemed satisfied with the sharpened weapon at least. He put it aside and picked up his largest dagger, idly turning it over in the growing light to inspect the blade for flaws.

"Wherever?" he asked abruptly, and Merlin blinked both at the question and the resolve that he saw in Arthur's eyes when their gazes met again.

It took him a moment to comprehend what Arthur was asking of him, and his stomach did another backflip in reaction, his heart fluttering against his ribcage. But Merlin cleared his throat before he spoke, keeping his voice even and devoid of the dizzying surge of anticipation that crested in his chest. "Yes," he answered, and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Ask me anything."

Arthur was quiet for a minute, as though he was sifting through an array of questions in his mind, trying to determine which was the most pressing. Eventually he shrugged one shoulder, and picked up the whetstone again, although he didn't put it to the blade—it looked like he was just trying to keep his hands occupied. Then he said, his tone carefully empty of any inflection at all, "The Green Knight called you Emrys."

Merlin sucked in a slow breath through his teeth in surprise—of all the questions he had braced himself for, this wasn't the first he had expected Arthur to ask. He still nodded, though, not wanting Arthur to assume that he was thinking carefully about his reply; it wasn't a _difficult_ question to answer, after all, it was just unexpected.

"It's kind of a— well, it's a name," he said, stumbling over the words a bit. "I don't know how the Green Knight knew it, I thought no one but the druids did." He found himself hesitating just for a second, but then he forced the next words out anyway, reminding himself sternly that there were to be no more secrets. "Do you remember the druid boy, the one we saved three years ago?"

"Mordred, yes," Arthur replied, immediately catching on. His eyes were keen and alert with recognition, his gaze seeming to bore into Merlin's, the whetstone and dagger forgotten. Merlin blinked at him in utter surprise, and Arthur waved an impatient hand at him to go on. "He told me his name when I dropped him off with the other druids."

"Yes, well," Merlin muttered, shaking himself out of his momentary astonishment—now was not the time to muse about how ironic it was that Arthur and the boy had parted on good terms, even though Mordred was destined to bring about his downfall along with Morgana. "He—Mordred, I mean—was the first one who called me Emrys. And then when we met the other druids, those who, um..."

He trailed off, a bit unsure of how best to put that into words, but judging from the minute tightening of the prince's features, he understood. Merlin swallowed at the unreadable look in Arthur's eyes, feeling his hands grow clammy with the echo of remembered haste to get to the Cup of Life. He wondered if Arthur remembered it as well, the palpable tension in the air when Arthur had resorted to the last desperate measure of holding his sword to a child's throat. As if on cue, Arthur looked away, his brow furrowing over downcast eyes.

"Anyway, they called me Emrys too," Merlin finished a bit lamely when he remembered what he'd originally planned to say. "They can sort of— speak without speaking. It's like hearing a voice in your head."

Arthur just nodded, accepting that bit of information without so much as a hint of incredulity. He let out a long sigh, and Merlin could tell that he was still trying to wrench his mind away from the memory of their encounter with the druids.

He waited in silence for Arthur to regather his thoughts, barely noticing that his backside felt frozen from the prolonged contact with the cold dewy ground. The growing light was glinting off the dagger that Arthur was still holding, thumb rubbing absent little circles into the leather covering the hilt, and Merlin found his gaze oddly transfixed by the motion.

"Do you know what he's planning, then?" Arthur asked at last, although he already sounded a bit resigned, like he didn't really believe that Merlin would be able to answer that question. Merlin frowned up at Arthur in confusion, taking in the prince's calm face, mildly astonished at the way his features seemed wiped blank of any expression at all.

"The Green Knight," Arthur elaborated, gesturing impatiently again when he realized that Merlin hadn't yet caught up with his thoughts. "Do you know why he killed those lords?"

Merlin felt his features close off against his will, and fought to keep the small sting of hurt from his expression, but he still had to take a deep breath to regain his balance. He sternly reminded himself that Arthur didn't know better, that Merlin couldn't expect him to trust him as implicitly as he'd done before within the course of a single stilted conversation. At least Arthur wasn't shouting, or worse yet, brandishing the dagger at him and demanding Merlin to tell him the truth—his hold on the well-worn hilt was still loose and absent-minded, and Merlin swallowed hard, taking some comfort at least from that.

"No," Merlin said, and to his relief, it wasn't hard at all to calm his voice this time. He met Arthur's gaze squarely, although he had to fight to keep his head held high, silently daring Arthur to believe him to be lying. "The first time I met him was at the feast. I never talked to him before Beltane. I have no idea how he knew that name, maybe he met some druids on the way here—I don't know."

There was just the barest hint of steel in his tone, and judging from the way Arthur straightened up where he was sitting on the log, he heard it as well. The silence stretched for a few too-long seconds, but Merlin refused to let his gaze skitter down and away, knowing only that he _needed_ to convince Arthur of this now, once and for all—that he wasn't, and would never be, in league with anyone who wished him harm.

More words bubbled up in his throat, but he gritted his teeth to trap them inside. It wouldn't do to burst out with frantic assurances now. He had tried to let Arthur come to him in his own time, but although he'd barreled his way into this conversation anyway, he still wanted to give him enough space to react to whatever Merlin said to him. He had told Arthur once that he didn't expect him to go on like nothing had happened, and he wanted it to be true.

"What I _do_ know," Merlin continued at last, softly now, "is that he's not evil."

Arthur frowned, jolted out of the mild shock that Merlin's decisive tone seemed to have sent him into earlier. He obviously remembered the first time Merlin had told him that, but Merlin was still glad that he'd tried again when he saw the thoughtful look entering Arthur's eyes. Now, he appeared ready to at least consider the possibility, instead of just dismissing it as an attempt at magic-related persuasion.

"At the feast," Merlin began haltingly, swallowing down his sudden nervousness when Arthur just gave him a blank look. "Your father—," and he'd expected the flinch, but it still made him feel guilty, as did the shuttering of Arthur's expression, and so he hastened to add, "—has he met the Green Knight before?"

That didn't seem to be the question Arthur had been expecting, if the widening of his eyes was anything to go by. He just stared back at Merlin for a silent moment, although Merlin was relieved to see the guarded look flit away to make room for astonishment. "Not that I know of," Arthur replied at last.

Sighing, Merlin nodded, and glanced down at his hands for a moment in contrition. "I _really_ should have asked Gaius," he muttered, but when he caught sight of the prince's increasingly puzzled expression, he hurried to elaborate. "Gaius said something to me after the feast—well, it was more like he was talking to himself. He was poring over a book of folklore and muttering something about how he'd seen the Green Knight before."

Arthur's gaze turned incredulous, and he leaned forward a bit, as if he wanted to examine this new strange snippet of information from a different angle. "You're not seriously suggesting that the Green Knight has come out of a _fairytale_ , are you?"

"Well," Merlin hedged, uncertainly, but Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, and so he added, "no, of course not, that would be... strange."

"It would," Arthur agreed with a stern look. And it could just have been Merlin's imagination, spurred by how well this unexpected conversation had gone so far, but he thought there was something hidden in Arthur's expression, something almost like amusement twitching the corner of his mouth as he glanced down at the dagger again.

But then the prince sighed, his expression turning dark with an unnamed memory, although Merlin had a feeling that he knew what Arthur was thinking about, if his own hazy thoughts of roaring fires and a gleaming axe were anything to go by. His suspicions were confirmed when Arthur said, more to himself than to Merlin, "And now Gwaine will—"

"Lose his head, I know," Merlin finished for him when Arthur paused, although it was difficult to get the words out through the sudden tightening in his gut. "If he's not careful."

"Reckless, attention-seeking fool," Arthur said without heat, the insult obligatory rather than genuine. For a moment he looked like he wanted to say more, launch into an angry rant about how audacious it had been to simply step up in the prince's place without so much as consulting him first. But then he pushed the words back down with a deep breath, and Merlin guessed that he was saving the tirade for when Gwaine was awake.

"I'll talk to him," Merlin offered lamely, trying to ignore the feeling of his stomach tying itself into knots. He knew very well why he hadn't allowed himself to think at length about his friend's plight yet—the mere mental image of Gwaine having to stand firm against a stroke of that axe in the near future filled him with creeping dread.

Arthur snorted, a grim smile tugging briefly at his mouth. "Good luck."

Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that, but the silence was still oddly companionable, if not entirely comfortable, and so Merlin didn't feel pressed to break it. Arthur ran his thumbnail down the dagger with a faint scraping noise, examining the metal for nicks in the blade. He was frowning absently, more in concentration than in thought, and although he wasn't looking at Merlin, the pensive, discouraged look on his face still stung.

Merlin couldn't help but think that Arthur had probably expected him to know more about these things—not necessarily about the Green Knight, since they'd met the man only twice, but at least about how to save Gwaine from the fate of the dead lords. He was a sorcerer, after all, and if he was destined to become Arthur's right-hand man as far as magic was concerned, he was supposed to _help_ with these things.

"Sorry," Merlin ventured at last, his voice glum. It would have been tempting to look away, but he forced his eyes to remain firmly fixed on Arthur—if he couldn't even offer any advice, he could at least be honest about it.

"What?" Arthur asked blankly, but a single confused glance seemed to be enough for him to deduce what his manservant was thinking. Merlin watched numbly as confusion flickered across the prince's features, followed by exasperation, and cringed a little as his expression finally settled on anger.

"No, Merlin you— you _idiot_ ," Arthur burst out, his voice suddenly raised with genuine frustration. He didn't so much as look behind him to see if any of the knights had woken, though. He just glanced away at the trees before looking back at Merlin, as if he had to force himself not to avert his gaze from his crestfallen expression.

"I'm not _disappointed_ in you, for heaven's sake," he insisted, a little less loudly, but still vehement. His tone brooked no argument, and Merlin couldn't help but feel pinned by the fierce look in his eyes, as though Arthur was silently commanding him to believe him. "I don't expect you to know everything about these magical happeningsjust because you're a— just because you have magic too. So stop looking like I killed your puppy."

For a long moment, Merlin could do nothing but gape at him. He saw two of the knights stirring in their bedrolls over Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur swallowed like he was quietly going back over his words and wondering if that had been the right thing to say. A lump was forming in Merlin's throat, growing larger with the uneven pounding of his heartbeat, fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird.

"Yes, sire," he replied belatedly, not caring to disguise how his voice wobbled ever so slightly, although he did clench his hands in the fabric of his breeches. Swallowing hard, Merlin reminded himself sternly that now was not the time to show just how much that meant to him, hearing Arthur reassure him like that. No matter how smoothly this unexpected conversation was going, they were nowhere near out of the woods yet, and it wouldn't do to accidentally chase Arthur off with a display of feeling.

"Let's concentrate on meeting up with the others again for now," Arthur said, his tone gruff as he attempted to smooth down the tension in the atmosphere again. "If he really comes to meet Gwaine within one week, we'll find out more about the Green Knight soon enough."

Merlin's breath caught in surprise, hitched audibly in his chest no matter how hard he tried to quell his reaction. Arthur glanced up from where he'd been staring down at the dagger again, eyes widening in alarm as he took in the expression on Merlin's face. Merlin couldn't imagine how he must look, cheeks flushed and eyes fever-bright with emotion, but he made no move to avert his gaze, in spite of how hard his pulse was thudding in his throat.

"What?" Arthur asked, almost defensively, and this time, Merlin couldn't help a wide, slightly tremulous smile from stretching across his features.

The reply was easy enough to form, although it took Merlin a moment to get his voice to work. He pitched his tone low, like speaking too loudly would negate the words, and simply said, "You said 'we'."

Arthur gave him a startled look; his choice of words had probably been unconscious, but Merlin could see that it was catching up with him now. He grimaced a little, partly in exasperation and partly in faint embarrassment, although he merely sideswiped Merlin with his glare before he directed it down to the knife in his hands.

"Oh, shut up," he said, sullenly, and Merlin bit the inside of his cheek to keep a relieved, slightly hysterical laugh from tumbling out of his mouth. It wouldn't do to tease Arthur now either, no matter how easy it would have been just then—but Merlin still relished in the mere fact that the urge was there, almost dizzying in its unfamiliarity after it had been gone for so long.

Dimly, Merlin noticed that Leon was sitting up in his bedroll by now, surveying the clearing with a bleary look that skimmed right over the two of them, as though he wasn't in the mind for listening in on a private conversation this early in the morning. Lancelot stirred too, rolling over onto his back as his hand instantly went to the knife next to his bedroll; but then he caught sight of Leon and relaxed, remembering where he was.

Another silence had fallen between them, but although this one was tense and slightly awkward, Merlin was surprised at his own lack of a need to break it. Arthur kept his gaze stubbornly fixed on his dagger, and it could just have been Merlin's imagination, but he thought he saw a hint of a flush creeping up his neck, as if he could feel Merlin's eyes on him like a physical touch. Merlin probably would have bumped his shoulder with his own if he'd been sitting next to Arthur just then, but this was nice too, a different, more hesitant kind of intimacy inherent in simply watching the morning light sift through Arthur's hair.

The morning's quietude shattered when Gwaine woke up with a groan and a curse, although Leon had taken care only to prod him gently until he roused. Even from a distance, Merlin could see him blink up at the canopy of leaves for a moment until the memory of where they were kicked in again. His dark hair was utterly disheveled when he sat up, but he didn't seem to mind. He just grimaced down at himself, and started to complain loudly about having placed his bedroll in the middle of an ant trail.

Merlin saw Arthur roll his eyes at the corner of his vision, and looked back at him just in time to see the prince's back straighten in reaction to the waking of the others. He rose from his perch on the log with a fluid, graceful motion, not seeming to feel the cold that surely must have seeped into his thighs. The long dagger snapped back into its sheath with a hissing sound, the whetstone was put away into the small pouch on Arthur's belt. He didn't speak, but for the moment, Merlin was content to just watch him, let his gaze track the set of Arthur's shoulders and the absent, well-practiced movements with which he fixed the daggers back on his belt.

But he glanced down at Merlin for just a moment before he turned to face his knights, his expression curiously bemused, as though he wanted to assure himself that they really _had_ talked, for once without shouting at each other or one of them stomping off. Merlin almost smiled at the thought—it was just like Arthur not to have noticed their astonishing progress until now. But in the end he quelled the urge, and settled for holding Arthur's gaze as calmly as he could, ignoring the prickling rush in his belly, and hid nothing.

Arthur gave him a nod, an almost unnoticeable dip of his chin that didn't look so much as a mark of respect as one of acknowledgement. Then he stepped over the log and towards their camp, calling out for Gwaine to stop being a ninny and go wash up in the nearby stream if there really were ants crawling all over him. Even with his back turned to Merlin, the line of his spine was easy and relaxed, and this time Merlin allowed the smile to break through, and didn't second-guess the sense of victory that swelled in his chest.

 

 

All things considered, the anxious gaze of Cogeltone's innkeeper reminded Arthur of the mild terror he had left in his wake at Torpelei—except that this time, he hadn't intended to get this kind of reaction.

The man was practically shaking, wringing his meaty hands on the tabletop where he'd sat down with them for a drink. He'd seemed delighted to have guests, even for one night, and had happily prattled on about how sowing was proceeding, the fish stock in the nearby river, and about everything that was currently happening in and around Cogeltone that might be of interest to weary travelers.

Arthur had let him talk for a while, sipping on his mug of diluted wine—it was only early afternoon, he didn't want to become too tipsy to get anything done for the rest of the day. But he'd waited to get down to business until Merlin and Gwaine had finished carrying their luggage upstairs and joined them around the table. It had been odd enough that neither Percival, nor Elyan, nor the squires had greeted them on their arrival, and he'd wanted all of them assembled before he inquired after his other knights.

The smiling reddened face of the innkeeper had paled as soon as Arthur had asked when he'd last had any guests, though. He had lowered his gaze to the table, and Arthur got the impression that he was thinking hard and fast, trying to furnish a quick lie, but when their eyes met again, Arthur knew that he wasn't going to. The innkeeper's eyes were still fixed on him, pleading, and Arthur felt his wariness increase as he unconsciously moved to sit up straighter.

"It wasn't our fault!" the innkeeper burst out, tugging on his thick fingers in an absent, desperate movement. "We tried to keep your friends from leaving—I _told_ them not to enter the forest, I _told_ them that any travelers who ventured in there were never heard of again—"

He subsided into silence once more, and Arthur exchanged a tense glance with Leon. Gwaine and Lancelot had both leaned forward and were bracing their elbows on the wooden table, and for once Gwaine was leaving his wine alone. From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Merlin lean back and fold his arms across his chest, like he wanted to fade into the background to observe the situation from a different angle.

"Our friends?" Arthur asked at last, keeping his tone calm and unassuming in an attempt to ease the frightened worry on the innkeeper's face.

Confusion flickered across the man's features. "Well, they were dressed for hunting, just like the lot of you," he replied, gesturing at their leather garb. "And they said they were going to wait for you to meet them here and go on a prolonged hunting trip together."

Arthur nodded slowly, turning that piece of information over in his head. It made sense that the others had made up the story about a hunting trip—it would have seemed strange for them to stay in a small village near the border to Mercia without any reason. Apparently Percival and Elyan had taken the orders of keeping a low profile to heart.

"When did they leave, then?" Leon suddenly asked, jolting Arthur out of his thoughts. The older knight still looked guarded, but Arthur could see that he was trying to keep any and all traces of wariness from his voice, so as not to make the innkeeper even more nervous.

"Two days ago," the man replied readily, although a faint sheen of sweat was beading on his brow by now. His gaze skittered around the table in search of something to hold on to, and he shook his head plaintively when his eyes met Arthur's again. "I tried to remind them that they'd been supposed to wait for you—"

"I believe you," Arthur interrupted, stopping the tumble of words with a placating gesture. He held the man's gaze, and tried to make his voice sound calm and reassuring. "I'm sure they had a good reason for leaving. No one here blames you."

The innkeeper sighed, sounding like the exhale was wrenched out of him, and deflated visibly, sagging a little in his chair. While it didn't quite break, the tension in the air lifted noticeably, and Arthur felt his shoulders droop a little in reaction. Whatever had happened to Percival, Elyan and the squires, this man was not responsible for it—he was just a simple villager.

True to form, Gwaine finally took another swig from his mug, muttering that he didn't understand how their friends could have left behind the supply of such excellent wine. A little color returned to the innkeeper's cheeks when he smiled distractedly, clearly pleased at the compliment. But he still seemed preoccupied when he gave Arthur a thoughtful look, and his tone was still cautious when he asked, "You're not— from Mercia, then?"

"No," Arthur replied, and exchanged a short glance with Lancelot, who looked just as astonished at the question. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," the man hedged, folding his hands on the tabletop—they were red from where he'd been kneading them in his anxiety, although he seemed calmer now. "Cogeltone is quite close to Mercia, the border is barely a day's ride away, and sometimes soldiers from Bayard's— _King_ Bayard's army come here to hunt."

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, pausing for an anxious moment as though to brace himself for being called out on his slip-up. But Arthur kept his features blank and unassuming, and after a moment, the innkeeper went on.

"They always come from the south, just like your friends," he went on. "No one wants to pass through the forest, so they take the old southern road instead. Sometimes they stay for longer than a few days to go on hunting trips, and, well—when your friends said they were here to hunt, I just assumed they'd come from Mercia."

He fell silent again, but although his words had been casual enough, Arthur could hear that he'd chosen them carefully, trying to keep them as nondescript as possible, and that was enough for him to deduce what had been left unsaid. The soldiers must have pushed the villagers around, intimidated them, maybe even taken gold and provisions—at any rate, they had succeeded in thoroughly cowing the innkeeper. The thought made a slow, burning anger begin to simmer in his gut, but he gritted his teeth against it, resolving to send a carefully-worded letter to Bayard as soon as he was back in Camelot instead.

"What happened to make our friends leave?" Leon inquired. He looked like he was just relaxing back in his chair, idly sipping his wine, but Arthur saw the veiled, intense scrutiny in his eyes. Apparently the older knight had secretly appointed himself to be the one to ask the questions this time around. The thought almost made Arthur smile; to his own surprise, he didn't mind handing over the position all that much.

"I'm not sure," the innkeeper replied. He didn't seem completely at ease, but at least he didn't look frightened anymore, just a bit cautious. "They arrived here five days ago to wait for you—they were my only guests, at least until some strange folks in cloaks came in a day after that."

Arthur frowned, pushing the thought of Bayard to the back of his mind to concentrate on the matter at hand. Gwaine put his mug down with a clang; it was empty, but he didn't look like he was about to ask for more wine.

"They drank with your friends," the man continued after a moment. "I'm not one to eavesdrop, but they talked long into the night. And the next morning they all left together." He shrugged, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. "I tried to stop them, remind them that they'd been supposed to wait for you, but they wouldn't listen. It was strange..."

He trailed off with a sigh, and Arthur saw his fingers twitch as though he wanted to knead them again. But he kept his hands still in the end, and just looked at Arthur with a faint echo of the same pleading expression from before, like he was silently asking him not to get angry with him for what he was going to say next.

"It was strange," he repeated, taking a deep, steadying breath, "because they didn't seem like themselves—I didn't know them well, but it was still odd. Their eyes looked all glazed, and they didn't react when I tried to convince them not to go to the forest. They just kept repeating that it was fine, and that they were welcome there."

No one moved or said so much as a word in the silence that fell when the innkeeper stopped speaking, but Arthur knew even without looking that the others were thinking the same thing. People in cloaks, and his knights being oddly out of it the morning after—sorcery seemed like the only possible explanation. Almost against his will, Arthur's gaze flickered to Merlin, but Merlin wasn't looking at him—he was keeping his eyes fixed on the innkeeper, though Arthur could tell by the stiff set of his shoulders that he could feel the weight of his gaze.

The innkeeper looked mildly worried again; after having found out that they were no Mercians, he'd probably deduced that they were from Camelot. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache he felt coming, and tried to rearrange his features to look calm and unassuming, to show the man that he wasn't about to get on his case for daring to so much as insinuate that sorcery was at work here.

"You said you were worried for them because they went to the forest," Arthur stated carefully, hoping to get the man talking again.

After a befuddled pause, the man nodded, perhaps a bit too frantically. "Nobody in their right mind would go there," he replied, and Arthur saw his surprised relief when he caught on to the shift of Arthur's attention. "It's a haunted place, full of strange sights and sounds that can turn any traveler around."

The innkeeper just seemed glad that Arthur wasn't interrogating him about his stance on magic, and prattled on, comfortable with the subject of local folklore. "It was the site of a great battle centuries ago—hundreds of people were slaughtered. A great warlord from the west was conquering our lands with his army."

He paused again, but this time the moment of hesitation was shorter than it had been before. "It's said that the warlord used magic," he ventured; it must have been easier for him to talk about it now, when he'd already seen their lack of an outraged reaction to the subject. "His soldiers would not tire nor fall—our people drove swords through their guts and shot at them with crossbows, but they could not be killed."

Merlin suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, but this time Arthur didn't turn to look at him—he was fairly sure that they were thinking the same thing anyway. All too clearly, he remembered another immortal army, raining systematic destruction on Camelot under a banner coated in red and black. Leon frowned, clearly having caught on as well, and Lancelot and Gwaine exchanged a wary glance. Arthur leaned back and swallowed hard, fighting to control the churning that had started up in his stomach. Now was not the time to dwell on battles long past and allegiances that had been lost all along.

"We lost, quite spectacularly," the innkeeper stated bluntly. "The immortal army slaughtered anyone who dared to stand in their way. Some tales tell the story of how there was only one man left in the end who nobly defended the forest, but he never stood a chance either."

"And you're saying that there are ghosts in the forest now?" Lancelot asked, his tone as polite and unassuming as though he had no doubts as to the existence of spirits whatsoever.

The innkeeper shrugged lightly, and in a quiet corner of his mind, Arthur was pleased to see his complexion returned to its healthy ruddiness—this topic didn't seem to bother him as much as the subject of Mercia had. "I wouldn't know," he said, somewhat regretfully, like he wished he could give them a better answer. "I've never been there myself, but I've heard stories. Travelers get thoroughly lost until they walk around in circles and don't even notice. There's strange apparitions at night, the animals seem to watch your every step, and any paths disappear or change course as they see fit. It's a dangerous place."

"And now the others are getting lost in there as well," Leon muttered, more to himself than to the others, but the innkeeper nodded anyway, giving him an apologetic look.

Arthur rubbed at his forehead again, but the occasional painful twinge refused to be dislodged, and he heaved a long sigh, already regretting the wine, diluted though it had been. Lancelot's forehead was creased into a worried frown, but Gwaine was now eyeing his empty mug with a mournful expression, like he really wanted to ask for a refill but didn't quite dare to break the tense silence.

In spite of his admirable attempt at discretion, the innkeeper noticed the look, because he rose from his seat at once, making a detour to the bar to pick up the pitcher of wine he'd deposited there earlier when he'd first sat down to talk to them. Gwaine grinned up at him while he got his mug refilled, but Arthur refrained from glaring at him—he knew how well Gwaine could hold his drink, even this early in the afternoon.

"It's odd how many people have been traveling through Cogeltone lately," the innkeeper said conversationally as he moved around the table. Arthur leaned forward, but it was too late—a stream of wine splashed into his cup, and this time he hadn't even had the time to add water. "There was that lady a few months ago, then another woman a few weeks later, and now there's you folks and your friends—"

"A lady?" Merlin suddenly asked, interrupting; Arthur turned to look at him, mildly astonished at the urgency in his voice. But the innkeeper just nodded, not seeming to have noticed his tone, and moved to refill Leon's mug too.

"A lady passed through these parts a few months ago," he confirmed, not heeding Leon's protesting gesture. "She was interested in the forest as well—asked around for a bit, wanted to know if it was indeed the site of that legendary battle against the immortal army. For some reason she seemed especially interested in the tales about the forest's defender."

Merlin stared at him with slowly dawning confusion, a puzzled look spreading across his features like he had no idea how to integrate this piece of information into whatever picture in his head had made him dig deeper in the first place.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Leon cut in before Merlin could speak, apparently not having noticed his frown. "And the other lady?"

The innkeeper chuckled, oblivious to Merlin's slightly frustrated look as well. "She was something else entirely," he replied, and put the pitcher down with a clang, now that everyone around the table was supplied with alcohol once more. "The first one was beautiful, but she was... well, _not._ I know I'm not the most handsome fellow around either, but even I am a whole lot gentler on the eyes than that loathly—"

Something clicked and locked in Arthur's mind, his memory flashing back to the sheltered hunting lodge near Torpelei, and to what he had promised there. It felt like that conversation had taken place only yesterday, although it had been over a week since they'd parted ways with Erik. But Arthur still remembered how Erik had insisted that his sister was not ugly, and how worried he'd seemed about her, until Arthur had promised to keep an eye out for her throughout the rest of their journey.

"I'll thank you not to speak of a noblewoman in that manner," Arthur said pointedly, and the innkeeper cut himself off straight away, looking mildly startled.

"I meant no offense," the man added hastily when Arthur didn't say anything else and just fixed him with his stoniest look. "Trust me, sir, you would be saying the same thing if you'd seen her, she was the most unsightly—"

"Where did she go?" Lancelot cut in, keeping his tone polite although he looked slightly disgruntled at having to witness this discourtesy towards a woman. Gwaine was not-so-subtly rolling his eyes, but Arthur was well aware that if the man had been talking about a woman Lancelot knew—Guinevere, for instance—he would already be held at swordpoint. That thought sent a slight twinge through him, although it wasn't all that hard to shove it to the back of his mind again.

"She stayed here for a night and left the next day," the innkeeper replied, not seeming to notice the mildly offended looks they were all leveling at him. "She'd met up with some shady cloaked people, and I didn't ask where they were headed."

Leon let out a sigh, and Arthur was privately amused to see him press his fingers to the bridge of his nose in much the same manner as he had done before. "Not the same cloaked people who probably enchanted our friends and lured them away?"

The innkeeper paused, and just stared at the older knight in utter surprise for a moment, like that thought had never occurred to him before. But then comprehension began to dawn in his eyes, and he nodded slowly as the facts visibly clicked in his head. "They might have been," he answered. "I wouldn't swear to it, but now that you mention it..."

He trailed off, clearly lost in comparing his memory of both cloak-wearing groups. Leon just shook his head and took another sip of his wine; he didn't say anything, but his expression spoke volumes of how he was wondering how anyone could have missed that blatant connection.

Arthur hadn't expected to find so much as a trace of Erik's sister—Ragnelle, if he remembered correctly— out here, near the Mercian border. He was surprised, if also a little dismayed; it wasn't like he'd _forgotten_ his promise before, but so much had happened since they'd left Torpelei that he felt like the matter had been pushed to the back of his mind without his consent. First they'd investigated another nobleman's strange demise in Watenhale, then Gwaine had foolishly agreed to have his head lobbed off in the near future.

She'd probably been enchanted as well, and led away into the forest just like his knights had been, for whatever reason. There was no telling what the sorcerers wanted with her, and Arthur just hoped they'd find her in time. Of course he was concerned about Percival, Elyan and the squires as well, but he knew that they, at least, could hold their own in a battle if worse came to worse.

"Maybe the shepherds saw something," the innkeeper suddenly spoke up again, startling Arthur out of his thoughts. He looked vaguely apologetic again, like he really wanted to give them more information to work with, but found his sources lacking. "It's almost a day's ride to the forest, and if the lady and your friends really were headed there, they must have passed our shepherds on the way."

Leon visibly brightened at the prospect of actually doing something to find the others, instead of sitting around and talking. Arthur nodded slowly, sifting through his memory in search of just the right section of their maps—as far as he knew, Cogeltone was surrounded by pastures, and they'd need to fan out to talk to all of the shepherds who might have seen something. And he didn't think swooping down on them as a group would work anyway; he didn't want to intimidate them, after all.

"We'll go and talk to them, then," he decided, and Gwaine drained the last of his mug with a noisy slurp that earned him an eyeroll from Lancelot. Even though he could only see Merlin from the corner of his eye, Arthur could tell that he looked just as relieved as Leon did. None of them seemed even remotely afraid of the prospect of having to go near the supposedly haunted forest, and although Arthur hid his smile, he allowed himself a brief moment of pride.

Gwaine stood up and stretched, arching the kinks out of his back, but as far as Arthur could tell, he was as steady on his feet as ever—he just looked a little more flushed than usual. The innkeeper bent over the table to collect their mugs, and the others rose from their chairs as well.

"We were sad to see them go," he stated, pensively, and turned to Arthur again. "Your friends, I mean. They never bothered any of us, and even helped out a bit around the village—chopping wood, helping the farmers mend fences and all that."

After a moment, Arthur inclined his head in acknowledgement, not quite knowing what to reply—he couldn't very well tell the man that basic human decency was expected of the knights of Camelot. But if his assumptions were correct, the villagers hadn't received anything like decency from the Mercian soldiers either, and they probably hadn't been expecting it.

"I hope you find them," the innkeeper said after a pause, a little uncertainly, as though something in Arthur's gaze had given him an inkling of who he was talking to. Arthur very nearly rolled his eyes (what was the _point_ of traveling incognito if people recognized him anyway?) but held his gaze.

He knew that look, the questions mingling with cautious hope in the innkeeper's eyes—he'd seen it first in Ealdor, and although this was a thoroughly different situation, he found himself responding as he had then. Arthur nodded again, and drew himself up to his full height, placing a brief supportive hand on the man's forearm. "I hope so too."

 

 

A few hours later, the others still weren't back from their tour of the surrounding fields, and Arthur had holed himself up in one of the two rooms they'd rented for the night. Daylight was fading slowly but surely, and Arthur had already lighted a few candles to aid his eyes, placing them along the edges of the table.

He didn't quite know why he'd bothered with the candles, though—the map looked the same in twilight, and he already knew it like the back of his hand from poring over it for an entire afternoon. His headache was raging unhindered by now, sending pinpricks of pain through his skull whenever he moved his head.

Next to him, Leon let out a sigh as though he felt the oncoming twinges of a migraine as well. Arthur had asked him to stay back and retreat to their rooms with him, because he knew that Leon's mind was the most strategically gifted among their group, aside from his own. And another pair of eyes couldn't hurt, after all.

He stared at the trail he had drawn across the map until it left an afterimage in his eyes. It was just a line drawn with soft wax, easy to wipe off the parchment again—he'd merely wanted to see the way they'd come. They'd traveled north from Camelot until they reached Treffynnon, and since then they had been going east, crossing the Northern Plains in a surprisingly neat line until they'd reached Cogeltone.

"The way I see it, sire," Leon spoke up from beside him, still with his customary courtesy although he was clearly deep in thought, "it looks almost as though we've been led here."

Arthur nodded absently; he'd reached that conclusion some time ago, and at least it made him feel less paranoid to hear it voiced out loud by Leon. The suspiciously straight line across the map couldn't be explained away by anything else. It looked like the Green Knight had been picking out their route for them, leading them eastward with strategically placed murders.

"Yes," Arthur replied, rubbing a hand across his face in an attempt to banish the ache from his temples. Leon was watching him, cautious and a little unnerved, like he was trying to guess what Arthur would say next. "And since we'll go after the others, we'll continue going eastward, it seems."

"But sire," Leon insisted, and moved as though to stop Arthur when he stepped away from the table. He quickly backed off when he caught sight of Arthur's raised eyebrows, although none of the insistence left his gaze. Apparently he had said just what Leon had expected.

"If we venture any further to the east," Leon said, quietly now, "we'll cross the border—"

"Into Mercia, I know," Arthur interrupted, bringing up a tired hand to pinch the bridge of his nose; it didn't help the pain, but he hadn't really thought it would.

"On the one hand we've got the peace treaty," the older knight continued, quietly now; Arthur recognized the respectful persistence in his voice from countless council meetings. "But for the crown prince and his entourage to just march into Mercia like that—with our patrols getting into skirmishes with Mercian forces in Escetia too, Bayard might see it as an act of war."

"I _know_ ," Arthur repeated, a little more vehemently, and Leon subsided into silence, carefully watching his expression to see if his words had taken hold in the prince's mind. It wasn't like Arthur had never thought of that during the past few hours they'd been holed up in here, but as far as he was concerned, there was no other option.

"From what the villagers told us, Percival, Elyan and the squires have already ventured into Mercia, probably under duress or enchantment," Arthur said, firmly holding Leon's gaze now, although he knew that he'd submit to whatever decision Arthur made—but he wanted Leon to know that his concern had been duly noted. "Act of war or no, I'm not abandoning them to their fate in potentially hostile lands."

After a pause, Leon replied, "Of course not, sire," his voice quiet but vehement, and Arthur inclined his head at him to show that he understood, that he knew Leon hadn't thought he would ever leave the other knights to their fate.

"We'll lie low," he answered, trying his best to sound reassuring, and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to get rid of the slight cramp he could feel forming there. "We'll avoid any roads, sleep out in the forest and set up night watches. We'll be as safe as we can be."

Leon nodded, deflating visibly, and Arthur knew he'd been just as set on following the others as he was. That was just another thing he appreciated in the older knight, and the reason why he'd asked him to stay—even if he did agree with Arthur, he always tried to draw his attention to different vantage points. And they'd known each other for such a long time that Leon nearly always knew what to bring to Arthur's attention to ensure that his outlook was as diverse as it could be.

Arthur looked down at the map again with a small smile, reassured in the knowledge that Leon couldn't see his expression—he'd walked over to stand at the window, idly gazing out into the evening. The village had gone quiet after the afternoon's flurry of activity; the door downstairs had slammed again and again, and Arthur guessed that the tavern was slowly filling with hungry farmers. None of the others had come back from the fields yet, but he already found himself thinking of dinner.

"Merlin?" Leon suddenly said from the window, his tone utterly confused. Arthur looked up, jolted out of his thoughts, but the older knight was still leaning on the windowsill, although he was now bending over as to better peer out of the dusty pane of glass.

Frowning, Arthur strode over, and Leon shifted to make room for him. The road outside was shrouded in twilight, deserted of the villagers that Arthur had heard bustling about all afternoon. The river looked like a slate of black, although the gentle sounds of waves lapping at the banks was audible even through the window.

Then he saw what Leon had been looking at, and felt his stomach drop. A horse was fast approaching in the distance, cantering along the road with full speed and kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Even from this far away, Arthur could see the figure bent over its neck, the horse's sheer speed whipping black hair around a white face as Merlin held on for dear life.

He was halfway down the narrow staircase before he even realized he'd moved, Leon running along behind him as Arthur bounded down the stairs skipping two steps at a time. The tavern was filled with candlelight and laughter, a group of farmers having pushed two tables together at the back of the room to share pints of ale after a day's hard work. Arthur swerved to avoid bumping into a barmaid, laden down with a tray of food, but he didn't break his stride, his booted feet pounding on the hardwood floor as he ran to the door.

The evening air was soothing and cool on his face after an afternoon spent inside, and Leon bumped into his back when Arthur skidded to a stop on the road. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the fading daylight, but he couldn't have missed Merlin's approach even if it had been completely dark. The horse's drumming canter got closer, the hoofbeats loud in the still air, and it was just rounding a bend in the road when Arthur turned towards the sound.

The horse skidded to a stop a few paces away, throwing its head back against Merlin's clumsy, frantic pull on the reins. Merlin immediately scrambled to get off its back, causing the animal to prance nervously. It seemed to struggle to keep its head held high, its flanks foamy with sweat, and the horse's heavy breathing sounded utterly exhausted.

"Merlin!" Arthur called, more sharply than he'd intended; he was already jogging towards him, his feet once again moving on their own accord. Merlin's head whipped up and around, and Arthur caught just a short glimpse of his white face and wide, frantic eyes before he lost his precarious balance and toppled out of the saddle.

Arthur winced when Merlin tumbled to the ground in a heap, but his fall hadn't been that far, and surely enough, the disheveled bundle that was his manservant twitched back into movement. Leon strode around them to catch the dangling reins of Merlin's horse, soothing it with quiet murmurs when it shied away from his touch at first.

Merlin scrambled back onto his feet, ignoring—or maybe just not seeing—the hand that Arthur had stretched down to him without thinking. His gaze flickered around like that of a skittish animal, catching on the looming hulks of the houses around them as though he realized for the first time where his frantic ride had taken him.

"Merlin," Arthur said again, more quietly this time, pitching his voice low. He automatically glanced behind Merlin, realizing that his hand had been resting on the hilt of his dagger the entire time. But there was nothing there, aside from the stretch of the road, looking more gray than earthy brown in the fading light.

"Arthur?" Merlin whispered, his eyes coming to rest on him with a look that Arthur hadn't seen in a long while. It reminded him of the countless times they'd been faced with some sort of danger together, and although the village was quiet around them, his heart kicked up into a higher gear. Fear was flickering in Merlin's too-bright eyes, along with the sort of frantic desperation that usually meant that he was going to do something stupid and reckless.

He pitched forward suddenly, barreling his weight into Arthur and pushing at him, tugging on his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. "No, no, you— you have to get back inside, they're coming, I don't know if it's safe here," he babbled, a frantic, high-pitched stream of words as he braced the heel of his other hand against Arthur's shoulder and shoved.

Thoroughly stunned, Arthur went with the movement, stumbling back a few steps until he could wrench his arm out of Merlin's grasp. Merlin's breathing was fast and erratic; there was no telling how long he'd ridden at that pace, and he must have clung to the saddle the whole way here. Arthur let himself be pushed, almost tripping when his back suddenly collided with the door of the inn.

Leon caught his gaze over Merlin's shoulder, his face drawn and wary, and motioned to himself and the horse. Arthur gave him a curt nod as he fumbled with the door handle behind his back—Merlin's horse needed a good rubbing-down, given how drenched its fur was with sweat. He stumbled over the threshold, tugging Merlin along with him, and slammed the door shut behind them.

It was like being engulfed in a pocket of light and sound after the quiet twilight outside, but Merlin let out a gasping sigh of relief, sagging slightly in Arthur's hold. He didn't quite know when he'd gone from being pushed around by Merlin to propping him up, but he could feel Merlin trembling against him. His eyes looked huge in his pale face, but he still scanned the room with frantic intent, his gaze skittering across the chattering farmers and the barmaids as though to check for hidden threats.

"Upstairs," Arthur said quietly, almost whispering the word against Merlin's temple, and turned them around, keeping a surreptitious hand on Merlin's back as he pushed him towards the stairs. A few faces were turned in their direction, looking curious rather than hostile, but their gazes still made the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably.

He waved away the concerned look of the innkeeper, and pointedly closed the door to the stairwell behind himself after he'd manhandled Merlin through the gap. The stairwell was quiet again, dimly lit by what little light was streaming in through the tiny window at the top. Merlin stumbled a few times as they climbed the steps in silence, and Arthur guessed that his fatigue was finally catching up with him.

The door to their room closed behind him with a satisfying click, and Arthur just spared a short glance at where the candles were still burning on the table, briefly relieved to see that the map hadn't gone up in flames in his absence.

Then he turned to Merlin, who was leaning against the wall next to the door as though all his strength had left him now that he was safe again. He gulped in air with huge, trembling inhales, but his breath kept hitching like he wanted to speak. Arthur waited, his heart pounding, tension coiled into every muscle as he mentally prepared himself to run back downstairs and get Leon inside, in case Merlin had accidentally brought a straggling band of Mercian soldiers down on their heads.

Merlin's breath seemed to slow a little as the seconds dragged by—he really was struggling to speak, Arthur had to give him that much—and finally he gasped out, "Hounds."

Arthur blinked, thoroughly taken aback, and stopped his hand from where it'd been straying towards his daggers again. "What?"

"There were," Merlin tried, but had to pause and suck in another breath. He gestured aimlessly towards the window. "I was—"

"No Mercian soldiers?" Arthur interrupted, and felt most of the tension drain out of him when Merlin shook his head and gestured again. He caught him by the forearm mid-flail and bodily shoved him across the room, ignoring the cut-off protesting noises Merlin made in reaction. Only when Merlin's thighs bumped into the bed did he let go, and predictably, Merlin plopped down on the mattress like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Arthur stepped back and out of Merlin's personal space, hovering for a moment before he moved to lean against the table. "Calm down, you're safe," he said, a little gruffly. The words made him feel stupid, since he had no idea exactly what Merlin had been fleeing from, but he didn't know what else to say. "Catch your breath."

Merlin deflated visibly, and nodded after a moment, dragging his sleeve across his face to wipe away the sweat that had gathered on his forehead. He was still pale, but not quite as translucent as before—color was slowly returning to his cheeks, drawn by the warmth in the room.

There was a creak of wood at the door, and Arthur spun around, his dagger already half drawn when he recognized Leon in the figure that carefully poked his head inside. He was moving slowly, waiting for their gazes to meet until he stepped fully into the room—Arthur let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and stepped back.

"A stablehand is taking care of the horse," Leon said in a hushed voice. His eyes darted from Arthur to Merlin and back again, and he closed the door behind himself. "Are you alright?"

Merlin nodded, and even managed a faint smile. His breathing had slowed, and a little of the instinctive panic had left his eyes—in fact, he was starting to get that look on his face that Arthur knew so well, the one that spoke of dawning realization of having done something stupid or unnecessary.

"I— sorry," Merlin said awkwardly, still winded but at least capable of coherent speech. Or well, as coherent as his speech ever got. "It was—"

He trailed off, visibly gathering his scattered thoughts. Leon shifted closer, looking more relaxed as well, now that Merlin didn't seem on the verge of a panic attack anymore. "I was just riding through the fields," Merlin started again after a moment, "keeping an eye out for shepherds, and I— I saw the forest in the distance, but I swear I didn't go anywhere near it."

Arthur just nodded, a little nonplussed when Merlin's earnest gaze met his. Of course he would have given Merlin a stern talking-to if he'd actually ventured there all by himself, but it was at least a day's ride from Cogeltone, so he knew very well that Merlin couldn't have reached it even if he'd tried.

Merlin seemed satisfied with that, though, because he took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his trousers. "And suddenly there were those _huge_ dogs," he continued. "They were so big, I thought they were wolves at first, and they just— watched me, for a moment."

He fell silent again, and although Arthur saw his throat work as he swallowed, he appeared determined to carry on and justify his breakneck ride back to the village. Arthur tried to rein in his expression and pull his eyebrow down from its doubtful perch on his forehead, but it didn't quite work.

"Their eyes were golden," Merlin said, softly now, and it seemed to take an age for him to raise his gaze to meet Arthur's again. His tone was measured, wrestled into a deceptive calm by Merlin's self-control, but Arthur saw the imploring expression in his eyes anyway.

It took him a few seconds to catch on, but then realization set in. In his limited experience, golden eyes meant sorcery—Merlin was saying that the dogs had been magical, if they had indeed been there. Arthur felt his features harden into an impassive mask and folded his arms across his chest, an uncalled-for surge of irritation bubbling up in him.

How dare Merlin imply his knowledge of magic right in front of Leon? It'd been bad enough when he'd done the same at Treffynnon, although he'd learned later that Lancelot had already known. On the other hand, a tiny voice piped up from the back of Arthur's mind, maybe Leon knew, too. Maybe Arthur was the last one Merlin had told.

Leon blinked upon finding himself the target of a sudden princely glare, and Arthur tore his gaze away with some difficulty, shoving his unkind thoughts to the back of his mind. Even if Merlin had told Leon (which seemed unlikely if one thought about it rationally), Arthur doubted that the older knight would have kept something like that from his prince.

"They were crouching down in the grass, I didn't see them until they were right in front of me," Merlin continued in a rush, like he'd seen the shutters close behind Arthur's eyes and was desperate to talk them open again. "My horse reared up and I almost fell, and then it just bolted and ran all the way back here."

There was a short silence, but although it looked like Merlin wanted to say more, he closed his mouth after a moment's consideration. Arthur kept his gaze studiously fixed on something just above Merlin's left ear, which was slowly reddening now, and ignored the prickly feeling that told him that Leon was looking between them and trying to figure out when the mood had tipped over into tension.

"Are you _sure_ about what you saw, then?" Arthur asked at last, doubtfully, making no attempt to disguise the dismissal in his tone. "You were probably just drunk."

Merlin bristled instantly, and Arthur made the mistake of meeting his gaze—the contact was brief, but long enough for him to see the confused hurt lurking behind the indignation in Merlin's eyes, like he didn't understand why Arthur's tone had suddenly turned so cold. "I barely had half a cup of diluted wine at lunch—"

"It doesn't take much to distort your perception," Arthur interrupted, deliberately harsh, and ignored the pulling twinge in his chest when Merlin's mouth snapped shut again as though against his will.

He pushed away from the table, suddenly itchy and restless, and shifted his gaze to Leon with some difficulty. The older knight just looked nonplussed, rather than hurt and slightly sad like Merlin did, and so Arthur found it easier to let his eyes rest on him. "The others should be back soon," he said, not caring when his voice came out too harsh. "I'll order dinner for us."

Leon nodded distractedly, but Arthur didn't miss the way his gaze flitted back to Merlin, his brow furrowing in thought. He couldn't tell if he was just wondering about the tension in the air, or if he was still thinking about what Merlin had told them, and Arthur told himself that he didn't care either way.

Merlin made a quiet, confused noise when Arthur crossed the room to the door, and for a moment he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from whirling round again. He almost asked Merlin to move his luggage into the other room, because of course Merlin had put his stuff on the bed opposite of Arthur's, like he'd been wont to do since they'd first stayed in an inn.

But then he forced the words back down from where they'd been poised on his tongue, although he did slam the door on his way out. He didn't even know where the useless, rekindled spark of anger had come from this time—maybe it was just Merlin's presumptuousness that had set him off again. The meaningful look that Merlin had given him kept snagging on his consciousness like thorny undergrowth, and renewed irritation bubbled up within him at the memory.

It was like Merlin suddenly thought that everything between them had been set right after their conversation in the forest, while it really _hadn't_. True, they'd reached what had seemed like a temporary truce, but maybe it hadn't felt quite as precarious to Merlin as it had to Arthur. Maybe Merlin hadn't thought anything of admitting him into his confidence like that just a few minutes ago—maybe he'd just assumed that Arthur would accept it, or welcome it, even.

And maybe he would have, if it hadn't been for Leon's presence. Arthur took a deep, steadying breath before he wrenched open the door to the tavern, letting light and sound flood over him and dull the sharp edge of that last thought. The farmers' laughter had gotten more raucous in the meantime and more candles had been lit, but the innkeeper's smile was still welcoming as he spotted Arthur moving through a throng of giggling barmaids.

Heading for the bar, Arthur shook his head to rid it of the useless train of thought. It wouldn't do to relapse into his previous brooding state of mind just because of a misguided _look_. It wasn't what he felt he should do at this point, although that didn't mean he had any idea what would be the right thing to do—he could, of course, just ignore Merlin for the rest of the day and carry on like nothing had happened tomorrow.

He sighed, and resisted the urge to run a frustrated hand through his hair. Even though their conversation in the forest had gone surprisingly well, it still felt like they were stumbling along through the dark most of the time, and little by little it was starting to get on his nerves.

At the hunting lodge, Merlin had told him that he'd never expected him not to react, and back then it had been strangely reassuring. But more and more often, Arthur found himself stuck wondering what Merlin _did_ expect, or whether he even expected anything at all.

 

 

Moonlight was spilling through the window, illuminating the floorboards and the worn furniture. The inn was quiet aside from the occasional laughter drifting up from the tavern, but although that sound was strangely comforting rather than annoying, Merlin still couldn't sleep.

Earlier, Gwaine had taken one look at his expression and surreptitiously tried to sneak some wine into his cup all throughout dinner. He probably thought that whatever had happened would be the stuff of several nightmares, and while Merlin appreciated his friend's efforts to ensure him a deep sleep, he still didn't succumb. As exhausted as he was from the hard ride, he was sure he'd sleep like a log anyway, and he wanted to keep a clear head.

Arthur had made stilted conversation with all of them, but Merlin could tell that the long day was taking its toll. He'd seen the map spread out over the table in their room, and knew that the prince had stayed at the inn with Leon to pore over it all afternoon and try to figure out what to do next. It went without saying that they'd follow the others into the forest, however haunted the innkeeper said it was. But even Arthur on a rescue mission wasn't reckless enough not to recognize the risk they were going to take, barging into Mercian lands like that.

Merlin shifted, pulling the covers a bit more tightly around himself, and let out a long sigh. Now that he was lying here with his body tired but his mind wide awake, he was beginning to regret not having taken Gwaine up on the offered alcohol. Arthur was either out cold or just pretending to be asleep on the other side of the room, but his breathing had slowed and lengthened an age ago.

It seemed a bit too regular to be genuine, though. Merlin only had to turn his head to look at him; all he could see of Arthur in the moonlight was a lump under rumpled blankets, a splotch of dark color where his head was resting on his pillow. It was too dark to make out the rise and fall of his chest, but Merlin could tell by the slight rasp in his breathing that he was lying on his back.

"Arthur," he found himself whispering, almost involuntarily—he just wanted to test if Arthur really was asleep or if this was just a relapse into the avoidance that he'd thought they'd gotten over by now. The prince didn't stir, though, and Merlin shifted to lie on his side, raising his voice. "Arthur?"

Arthur emitted a soft snore that tapered off into a grunt, and Merlin heard the rustle of sheets as he sat up abruptly, his eyes reflecting the moonlight with a brief glitter as his gaze darted across the room, looking for what had roused him. "Where— what?" he mumbled; there was a clatter of metal on wood as he reached for the small knife he'd put on the small, wobbly table next to his bed.

"It's just me," Merlin whispered back, slightly guilty because obviously Arthur _had_ been asleep.

"Merlin," Arthur said, the name rushing out on a sigh that already sounded more exasperated than sleepy, but he slumped back into the pillows again. "What is it?"

"Um," Merlin mumbled, toying uselessly with a crease in his blankets, the wind taken out of his sails; he'd just wanted to test if Arthur was avoiding him again, but now Arthur was demanding an explanation for why he'd been woken. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to think of something to say, but the words that finally tumbled out were, "Do you think we'll find Percival and Elyan?"

There was a pause, and then Arthur shifted with another rustle of the blankets, and although Merlin couldn't see his face clearly in the darkness, he could picture his incredulous look. "You woke me up just to ask me that?"

"I thought you were just pretending to sleep," Merlin replied defensively before he could stop himself, and very nearly bit his tongue when he realized what he'd said. His own tiredness was slowing him down to the point that he forgot to mince his words around Arthur like he'd never had to before. There was no real reason for it even now, except for how Merlin had adopted the habit of treading carefully around Arthur after he'd told him about his magic, and it had been so long that it was hard to shake off.

"Why should it matter to me whether or not you think I'm asleep?" Arthur asked, and Merlin blinked at what little he could see of him in the darkness for a moment, jolted out of his thoughts.

"I don't know," he replied, shifting into a half-sitting position. He couldn't concentrate properly while lying down, and it seemed that Arthur had woken up a little more and recognized some sort of warped challenge in Merlin's words. "You've been avoiding me."

Another short silence, and Arthur let out a long sigh, but although he sounded tired, he wasn't trying to deny the truth in Merlin's words. Merlin released a slow breath of his own, not quite knowing what that meant—but at any rate, it gave him reason to hope that this midnight conversation wouldn't derail into another argument.

"Even if we find them," Arthur replied at last, and it took Merlin a moment to catch up and realize that Arthur was just answering his first question, "we'll have to wrestle them out of those sorcerers' control first."

The sorcerers. Of course. Merlin swallowed, and wiped suddenly sweaty hands on his blanket, feeling like they'd gotten a whole lot closer to the crux of the matter. Arthur's carefully controlled voice showed no sign of mistrust, but Merlin imagined that it was there underneath the calm veneer.

"Maybe they were druids," Merlin offered; as appeasements went, it was probably rather weak, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. "Even you have to admit they're a peaceful people."

Arthur snorted humorlessly, the sound a lot more real than the flat, wooden quality that his voice had taken on just a moment ago. He shifted again, and Merlin thought he saw him lean his head back into the pillows to look towards the window.

He probably just wanted to sleep, or at least to have this conversation in broad daylight where he could glare Merlin back into silence, but now that Merlin had started this talk, Arthur seemed unwilling to end it by snapping at him. As dangerous as the subject of magic still was around him, Arthur obviously _was_ capable of reining in his temper—which was no mean feat, considering what he'd been taught for all his life.

The thought made Merlin smile a little, and he let it run its course under the safe cover of darkness, grateful that Arthur couldn't see him. But then Arthur sighed once more, like he'd been turning Merlin's suggestion over and over in his head but kept coming to the same conclusion, and replied, "It probably wouldn't take long even for the most peaceful of people to be corrupted by power."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but once they did, Merlin felt like he'd just been doused in icy water. He stared at Arthur, the glitter of his eyes in the dark and the silhouette of him leaning back into his pillows, and thought, vaguely, that he probably hadn't meant anything by that. At any rate, he didn't appear to be waiting anxiously for Merlin's reaction; the silence seemed baffled rather than tense. But for a long moment, it was all Merlin could do to gape at him and try to wrap his mind around what Arthur had just said.

"Do you think I'm— _corrupted_ , then? Is that it?" Merlin spat at last, the words coming out too loud in the nocturnal quietude although his voice wobbled dangerously. Even in the dark, he practically felt the startled look Arthur gave him—he probably hadn't expected that kind of reaction, and maybe he hadn't even meant it like that, but right then, Merlin didn't care.

"You probably think I made up the whole thing with the hounds too, for some nefarious reason," he said, an unexpected surge of bitterness tightening his throat. He looked away to the window, trying to ignore the way his vision was blurring at the edges. "Maybe I lured you here to slaughter you and your best knights in some godforsaken _cave_ in the middle of Mercia—"

"Merlin," Arthur began, but Merlin didn't let him get a word in edgeways, too tired and raw to even stop and think about the note of uncertainty in Arthur's tone. Exhaustion crashed over him like a wave, whether from today's hard ride or something else, he didn't know, and in a corner of his mind, Merlin knew he was overreacting, but he still couldn't stop the jumbled torrent of words that poured out of him.

That might have been where he'd gone wrong right from the start, he thought dizzily when Arthur paused for just a fraction too long. Whenever he'd thought of talking his way back into Arthur's good graces, he had never taken his own pain into account, the way it had worn a groove into his thoughts during those first two weeks when Arthur hadn't talked to him.

But now it was slopping over the edges of his control, after he'd kept it locked away for too long, thawing along with everything else between them. And somehow it was so unfair that it chose _now_ to flare up and mingle with anger, especially when he remembered the tentative steps they'd already taken towards reconciliation.

"Oh wait," Merlin exclaimed, interrupting whatever else Arthur might have said, had he been given the chance, "maybe I'm in league with the Green Knight too! Maybe I summoned him by magic and let him loose on the nobles, regardless of the fact that he's going to chop my friend's head off now—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin," Arthur snapped, genuinely angry now, and Merlin swallowed hard, pathetically grateful that he'd been cut off. "I never— you know I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Merlin volleyed back, well aware that he sounded almost hysterical, but also beyond caring. His thoughts felt jumbled, like Arthur had physically shaken him back and forth to knock some sense back into his head. The memory of how Arthur had guided him through the tavern earlier rose in his thoughts, unbidden but not unwanted, and Merlin took a deep, slow breath, remembering how it had felt to be dragged out of hazy panic by Arthur's hands on his arms alone.

Arthur was quiet for a moment, thinking more carefully about what he was going to say, now that a few careless words had set Merlin off like that. Merlin found that he could loosen his death grip on his blanket, and pried his fingers apart one by one as he waited for Arthur to speak. Something small in his chest unfurled with relief, and for once it didn't occur to him to tamper the tentative warmth.

Finally, Arthur took a deep breath, much like Merlin had done a moment ago, and he couldn't help but realize that this conversation must be far from easy for him, too. But Arthur's voice didn't waver when he said, "Magic corrupted Morgana."

Merlin blinked over at him through the darkness, barely able to make out the faint shine of his hair in what little moonlight reached the back of the room. He hadn't quite expected that, although he knew he should have seen it coming. Morgana had nearly destroyed everything, after all, Arthur's kingdom, his people, and his family—it was only logical for him to remember a red tree on a black backdrop and the vacant look in his father's eyes whenever he thought of the ways magic might be used for evil.

"Morgause corrupted her," Merlin corrected quietly. He was treading on thinning ice, and after everything she'd done, it wasn't his place to defend Morgana anyway, but the memory of holding her, of how she'd struggled for every breath in his arms, made him feel like he should. "And— and her fear."

Arthur sighed, like it was hard for him to believe that Morgana had ever been afraid of anything. Merlin thought back to when she'd still been dreaming, to the many times he'd said nothing when Gaius gave her increasingly strong sleeping potions, and then to the one time he had. At first she'd just been confused and afraid, and even after everything else, he couldn't blame her for that.

Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that, and Merlin was too tired to even feel surprised that the silence wasn't all that awkward. Maybe both of them had just used up their share of awkwardness for the day when Merlin had told him and Leon about the hounds. He could hear Arthur's breathing on the other side of the room, sounding oddly hesitant as though he was trying to think of something to say, but Merlin found himself glad when he remained silent. He didn't think he could take another half-argument tonight.

His jaw cracked audibly when he yawned, and Arthur let out a huff that could have been a chuckle. "We should probably sleep," he said. "We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Will we go to the forest?" Merlin asked, grateful for the somewhat less dangerous topic, although it felt odd to cut off their previous conversation just like that. They hadn't really come to any conclusion, at least not about Morgana, but it also seemed pointless to continue—it was of no use darkening the atmosphere between them again just because of what she had done.

"Yes," Arthur replied belatedly; Merlin got the feeling that he'd nodded before remembering that Merlin couldn't see him. He wondered if all Arthur saw of him was a dim silhouette as well, a hazy outline against the brightness of the white blankets, just barely visible in the moonlight. The thought that Arthur hadn't seen his expression earlier was reassuring, even though he knew that they couldn't always rely on the cover of darkness to talk.

But if they went to the forest, it would be a long day for Merlin indeed. He sighed, barely managing to stifle another yawn. He'd end up tense and guarded throughout the entire ride, waiting for magical mayhem to be set off by their arrival in the haunted lands. As careful as he knew Arthur and the others would look out for any danger, Merlin knew that it fell to him to keep an eye out for supernatural threats. With the memory of his encounter with the huge golden-eyed dogs still fresh in his mind, he could only hope that they weren't in for any more unpleasant surprises.

"Well," Arthur said awkwardly, after he'd waited long enough for Merlin to speak, jolting Merlin out of his thoughts. The blankets rustled, and Merlin glanced over at him just in time to see Arthur slip beneath his covers again, the shadows on the blanket shifting with the movement. "Good night, then."

"Good night," Merlin replied, still distracted but willing to let their talk trail off for now. It would be of no use to go around in circles even longer, and of even less use to continue speculating about Morgana. What was done was done, after all, and Merlin didn't particularly _want_ to talk to Arthur about her anyway. He was just trying to set things right between them again, and Morgana had nothing to do with that. He didn't want to be the one who ended up justifying her actions to Arthur just because he happened to have magic too.

He'd thought he could stop haranguing Arthur about magic, he had thought he would be strong enough to back off and let him make his own decisions of what to think and which beliefs to discard. Once more, Merlin wondered about how spectacularly that particular plan was failing. It wasn't like he'd planned to keep getting into snappish discussions about it, but whenever the opportunity presented itself, he could never bring himself to stay away.

All the same, Merlin mused as he settled deeper into his cocoon of blankets, he knew that couldn't change Arthur's stance on magic all by himself. He was Arthur's servant, he'd been his confidant, maybe even his friend. And at the same time, he was just a man—a man with extraordinary power, but a man nonetheless.

But Arthur was just a man, too. And men could change their views, even if kings couldn't, and no matter how often one of them ended up snapping at the other these days, Merlin was unwilling to let go of the hope that Arthur would. They just needed time, and something to keep their minds off of everything at least once in a while—and well, judging from how this quest was going so far, they had both aplenty.

The thought was enough to drain the last of the tension out of Merlin's muscles, and he felt himself sink a little deeper into the mattress. He let his eyes droop shut and fell asleep to the steady sound of Arthur's breathing from the other side of the room.

 

 

"You," Merlin said firmly as he strode into the tavern and pointed an accusing finger at Gwaine with the other hand on his hip, "need an attitude adjustment."

"Merlin, my man!" Gwaine exclaimed with a grin, waving him over and accidentally slopping wine on his previously clean tunic in the process. "Come have a drink with me! This wine is really good!"

Merlin pulled a disapproving face, but he still shuffled over to him and plopped down in a chair on the other side of the table. He eyed the remains of the rich breakfast that the innkeeper had laid out for them—bread and cheese, little honey cakes that melted on his tongue, and some of the best smoked ham Gwaine had ever eaten. A plate of freshly-cut salmon completed the picture, dragged out of the river just an hour ago, as the innkeeper had proudly exclaimed.

Gwaine hadn't been all that surprised when he'd come downstairs in the morning to find Arthur, Leon and Lancelot already halfway out the door. Apart from Lancelot's disapproving look, nobody had commented on his lateness, though, and they'd gone outside to prepare the horses for a full day of riding as Gwaine had sat down to help himself to some breakfast. Apparently the innkeeper was as observant as his supply of alcohol was unending, because he'd hurried to Gwaine's side with a pitcher of wine the moment the door had shut behind Arthur and the others.

Now, though, Gwaine was glad to find that he wasn't the only one who'd overslept. Merlin looked better than he had last night—the dark circles under his eyes were gone, and he seemed altogether more alert to his surroundings, if also less jumpy and tense. Gwaine still had no idea what had kept him in such a state of alarm all evening, but he was relieved that Merlin had snapped out of it by now.

"Here, have some," he said jovially, pouring some wine into the empty mug in front of Merlin; Merlin grimaced when his sleeve was drenched in alcohol. "If we're going to venture into the Big, Bad Forest of Secret Sorcery or whatever it's called today, we'll need all the liquid courage we can get."

Merlin rolled his eyes, but ignored the wine as well as the lavish breakfast. He rested his forearms on the table and just looked at Gwaine for a moment, his gaze flickering across his face as though to search for any signs of tiredness or distress. Gwaine simply blinked back at him, wondering if Merlin was indeed nervous about today—he'd just been joking before, but there was nothing like a stiff drink in the morning to calm upset nerves.

"I think we have to talk," Merlin said quietly, and Gwaine gave a sympathetic nod, thinking that he'd been right—at least until Merlin took a deep breath and added, "about the fact that you feel the need to be suicidal."

Gwaine paused in the act of raising another piece of bread to his mouth. Honey dripped down onto his sleeve, and he wiped it off with absent annoyance. That was not what he'd expected to hear, and frankly, he didn't know how else to react except for with confusion.

"Suicidal?" he repeated at last, when Merlin just continued to fix him with that steely look. "I have no idea what you're—"

" _The Green Knight_ ," Merlin interrupted, the words bursting out of him as though he'd been holding them back for quite some time—and well, he probably had. "Beltane, the challenge, _that's_ what I'm talking about. Ring any bells?"

Frowning, Gwaine put the bread down to preserve the rest of his shirt and leaned back in his chair. Merlin looked— not _angry_ , not quite, but upset and puzzled at the same time, and to his own surprise, being the reason for that expression made something squirm in his chest. He didn't think anyone had ever looked at him like that before, maybe save for his mother, who'd had her hands full keeping him out of trouble when he had been a child.

"There's no need to worry about me, Merlin," Gwaine told him, doing his best to sound reassuring, in the hopes that it would wipe that look off of Merlin's face. "I knew what I was doing—"

"No need to worry?" Merlin repeated, incredulous and not looking all that much calmer. "You've agreed to a beheading game with a foreign knight, and you're telling me not to worry? He'll kill you! I mean, have you _seen_ that axe?"

"Oh, yes," Gwaine said enthusiastically, welcoming the distraction, but judging from the darkening of Merlin's expression, he didn't approve of the appreciative grin that had broken out across Gwaine's face on its own accord. "A formidable weapon indeed, and _heavy_ , I couldn't have wielded it one-handed—"

"Yes, but think of your _head_ ," Merlin insisted, somewhat desperately. He'd shifted forward in his chair, leaning towards Gwaine as though to convince him of the seriousness of the situation by sheer force of will. "It will _roll_ , and then what? You'll be headless!"

Gwaine sighed, and used the moment of silence to stuff the previously neglected piece of bread into his mouth. In a way, he understood Merlin's worry—Merlin wasn't a true knight, no matter how often he'd bravely tagged along on their adventures and done his best to help even without a sword. He didn't understand the challenge of adventure that send a thrill down Gwaine's spine whenever he thought of his promise to the Green Knight, like crisp morning air rousing him to alertness after a good night's sleep.

Something about that thought made him pause, though, and Gwaine suddenly realized that meant _he_ was a true knight—or rather, that he'd grown into it somewhere along the way without noticing. It seemed ironic that _that_ sent a faint stir of alarm through him, rather than the memory of the Green Knight's axe that Merlin had tried to invoke.

He shook his head to dispel the flicker of uncertainty, and swallowed down his mouthful of honeyed bread. "What do you suggest I do, then?" he asked simply, spreading his hands. "Break my word? I think not."

Merlin mumbled something about stupid knights, stupid honor, and prats rubbing off on him, but Gwaine gallantly chose to ignore that. He picked up a piece of salmon, and carefully formed it into a roll before popping it into his mouth. Merlin watched in silence as Gwaine chewed and nodded in appreciation of the taste—after all the months he'd spent at Camelot, it wasn't quite the best salmon he'd ever eaten, but it came close.

"The Green Knight, he—," Merlin begun, and swallowed, dropping his gaze to the table, studying the remains of the huge breakfast, still without any inclination to eat. Hand already raised to take another slice, Gwaine paused. "I don't know how, but— he's magic."

Gwaine grinned easily, relieved when Merlin caught sight of his expression from under his eyelashes and a little of the discomfort left his features. "I'm from Caerleon," Gwaine pointed out; a look around the table revealed that there was still more than enough bread left for both of them, even if Merlin did suddenly remember how hungry he must be.

For the moment, Merlin just blinked at him in confusion, though, obviously not knowing what to make of that statement. Gwaine sighed, long-suffering, and waved an idle hand. "I'm not half as scared of magic as you people in Camelot are," he explained, catching the incredulous look Merlin gave him. "So what if the Green Knight has magic? He also has a formidable axe. And he's a man of honor, he would never resort to sorcery in this game."

Merlin still didn't look reassured, but at least he lifted his head again. His ears had gone slightly red, as though something about the talk of magic made him squirm inside, although Gwaine didn't understand why. "How do you know that?"

"He promised," Gwaine replied, and scooped up a generous amount of butter on his knife before smearing it on another piece of bread.

"Yes, I was there, I remember," Merlin said slowly, after a moment of silence had passed, like he'd wanted to give Gwaine the opportunity to elaborate on that. "But how can you be so sure he'll keep his word?"

Gwaine opened his mouth to answer, already frowning because it was just _obvious_ , but then he realized that he had no idea what to reply. Rationally, he couldn't be sure that the Green Knight would stay true to his promise—he'd met the man only twice, and he'd encountered tangible proof of his magic in every ivy-overgrown house they had seen on their way. If one looked at it from Merlin's point of view, it really did seem like a foolhardy thing to trust somebody who'd let his head get lobbed off, only to calmly pick it back up again as though nothing had happened.

"I don't know," Gwaine stated at last, although he almost wished he'd lied when he saw Merlin's face fall. "I just am."

Sighing deeply, Merlin raked his fingers through his hair like he wanted to clear his thoughts. Gwaine watched him, taking in the tension in his shoulders that he'd missed before—he wondered what had brought this on, if Merlin had lain awake all night worrying about Gwaine's fate. A few days had passed since Beltane, after all, but maybe he'd just been too preoccupied with other thoughts until now—certain blond thoughts, Gwaine suspected.

"Merlin," he said, and put the bread down to reach across the table and put his hand on Merlin's arm. Even through the sleeve of his tunic, he could feel the tension wrought into Merlin's muscles, and he squeezed, trying to reassure him with the touch since he didn't seem to be all that good at it with words. "You don't need to worry about me. I'll be fine. I'm rather looking forward to the rest of this adventure, to be honest."

"That's what's bothering me," Merlin muttered, but he gave Gwaine a small smile. It was short-lived and didn't quite reach his eyes, but it _was_ a smile nonetheless.

Gwaine let go of Merlin's arm to finally pick up the bread he'd buttered, and stuffed it into his mouth in one go, just to see Merlin roll his eyes at him. The whole matter was obviously far from over, but Merlin seemed willing to let it go for the moment—he took a deep breath and shook himself, as though to chase those thoughts away, and eyed the rich breakfast once more, but this time with vague intent.

His eyes were still troubled when he picked up a slice of salmon, but Gwaine seemed to be safe from further scoldings for now; at any rate, he trusted the food to steer the focus of Merlin's attention away from him. He leaned back in his chair and savored the bread, satisfied—but just before Merlin took his first bite of fish, Gwaine thought he heard him mutter something about _definitely_ having to get some help.


	6. Three Ravens

If anyone had asked him about it, Merlin wouldn't have been able to explain why—but somehow, his Dragonlord powers were different from his magic.

A chilly wind stirred the night air, and Merlin shivered, folding his arms across his chest to preserve some body heat. The day had been a mixture of sunny and overcast, and now the moon was barely visible through lazily drifting clouds, carrying the fresh scent of impending rain. He glanced up at the sky, and hoped that Kilgharrah would heed his call before the downpour started.

Even now it felt like his very bones were vibrating, thrumming with otherworldly power. It wasn't like his magic, which sometimes reminded him of a swift spring breeze, or the waters of a brook skipping over stones. His magic was everywhere, flowing through his veins in his blood and sown into every muscle and tendon; in this, at least, he could articulate how the ancient gift that his father had passed down to him was different.

An endless well of power seemed to open up in him whenever he called for Kilgharrah, like something sharp-toothed and primal awoke in his gut and directed his magic to where it would never think to go on its own. Even after more than a year, the sensation was still as foreign as it was unsettling, and if Merlin was honest with himself, he had to admit that it scared him sometimes.

It made him think back to the battle against the immortal army, and considering the fact that it had been forged in dragon fire, it seemed only logical that it reminded him of Arthur's sword. It was odd to think that Arthur, who didn't have a magical bone in his body, should be the one destined to wield it—but Merlin didn't doubt for a second that Arthur's controlled strength could temper the sizzling energy in the blade. When Merlin had used it, it felt like the sword had guided his hand.

Another gust of wind made him wrap his coat more tightly around himself, and he wandered a little deeper into the sprawling field when he heard the rustle of leaves in his back. They had ridden all day, and the closer they'd come to the forest, the more unsettled Merlin had felt. It was probably just an instinctive response to the story the innkeeper had told them, but it had gotten to the point that Merlin had to force himself to choke down some field rations when they'd made camp, his stomach roiling with discomfort.

The others were sleeping soundly about two furlongs from the treeline, and Merlin had offered to take the first watch to sneak away without anyone noticing. Now he was standing in an open field, watching the grass sway gently in the nightly breeze, and tried to ignore the itch at the back of his neck that came from having his back turned to the forest.

Leaves rustled behind him, the sound ominously loud despite the considerable distance he was keeping from the treeline, and Merlin almost missed the shadow that briefly obscured the moon. With a great rush of air and a thump that shook the earth beneath his feet, Kilgharrah landed in front of him, neatly folding his wings at his sides and not seeming all that surprised to see him.

Which made sense, all things considered, since Merlin was the only one who could call him. Merlin craned his neck to look up at him, awed once more despite himself. Moonlight glinted on the dragon's scales and made the leathery wings shimmer faintly. He looked just like he always did, the timeless depth of his eyes unchanged despite the months that had gone by since they'd last seen each other.

"Merlin," Kilgharrah greeted after a moment of silence, solemnly, although he seemed to take care to pitch his voice low so as not to wake the others—he'd probably seen their camp from above when he'd flown down to meet Merlin.

"Hello," Merlin said, oddly tongue-tied now that the dragon was here. It felt weird to talk to him without impending disaster nipping at his heels—well, he got the disaster bit down, but it still seemed quite far off.

Usually, he never got the time to wonder if whatever problem he had really warranted a dragon's advice; he just blurted it out as soon as Kilgharrah's claws touched the ground. They met so rarely that every time felt strangely like the first, which was disconcerting in itself. But at least Kilgharrah didn't hold Merlin's past failings against him, although Merlin sometimes suspected that he wanted to.

The dragon seemed to glance at the forest for a moment, although it was hard to tell with the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. He bent down a little further, cocking his head as if to study Merlin closely and check whether _he_ had changed, at least, but Merlin couldn't tell if he was satisfied with what he saw.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable despite himself. "I— I need your help."

"I'd guessed," Kilgharrah replied calmly, refolding his left wing with great care. Merlin got the distinct impression that if he'd been human, he would have started picking at his nails with a knife or something equally idle. He seemed to notice the lack of urgency in the air as well. "Do go on."

Merlin took a deep breath, tried to organize his thoughts, and told him everything.

He started with the Green Knight's arrival at the feast all those months ago, and watched in confusion when Kilgharrah started visibly, looking at Merlin in askance for a moment before leaning closer, something clearly having piqued his interest.

He went on telling him about the dead noblemen, their ensuing journey, and the ivy. While waiting for the dragon to arrive, Merlin had felt acutely aware of the sounds around him, the occasional cry of a bird from the nocturnal forest and the gentle rustling sway of the grass. But now the world around him seemed to dissolve into insignificance as he told his story, and he stopped listening for any sounds from the camp's general direction.

Kilgharrah listened in silence when Merlin described how they'd retraced the Green Knight's path through all those villages, and how they'd met him again at Beltane eve. He faltered a little at the memory, but carried on, determined not to omit anything of importance—he was fairly sure he could see a knowing gleam in the dragon's eyes despite the darkness. Although it didn't seem connected to the rest, Merlin made sure to inform him of his unsettling encounter with the strange magical dogs as well.

"And now we're going to head straight into Mercia," he finally concluded, "and Gwaine is going to get his head cut off." He spread his hands, helplessly; his palms felt clammy in the cool night air. "What am I going to do?"

Kilgharrah said nothing for a long moment, and Merlin paused for breath, oddly exhausted now that he'd told him the whole story in one go—but just talking about it was relieving in itself. He watched the dragon's pensive gaze drift to the forest again, and tried not to fidget when the amber eyes came to rest on him once more.

"You always think that you must do something," Kilgharrah said at last, his voice still pitched low. But at least he didn't sound accusing—if anything, he seemed deep in thought. "You assume everything falls to you."

"Well," Merlin floundered, a bit nonplussed, and shrugged as the full meaning of the words registered with him. "That's what you've been telling me all these years, isn't it?"

He cringed a little when the dragon narrowed his eyes at him and tossed his head as though in annoyance. "It is not," Kilgharrah said sharply, although he just seemed slightly cross at having been misinterpreted. "I have been telling you of your destiny. The reckless knight has no part in that."

It only took Merlin a moment to figure out that Kilgharrah was talking about Gwaine, and the surge of irritation that went through him wasn't entirely unexpected. "He's my _friend_ ," he snapped, and folded his arms across his chest defensively—it wasn't easy to glare daggers at a dragon, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. "Is it so wrong that I want to help him?"

"No," the dragon said simply, "but you cannot make his choices for him, nor protect him from his own taste for adventure."

Merlin swallowed hard, feeling his stomach drop. "So he will die?" he asked, not caring when his voice came out hoarse.

"That depends on whether he proves himself worthy. And that," Kilgharrah added, clearly seeing the unvoiced question in Merlin's expression, "is for the Green Knight to decide."

Blinking up at Kilgharrah in momentary confusion, Merlin remained silent as the words stirred something in his memory, a tiny detail that he had almost forgotten. His mind flashed back to the clearing, the firelight flickering across the Green Knight's features as he'd said that Gwaine's strength was worthy of being tested. He frowned, quickly pushing away the mental image of the blood that had spurted from the man's neck.

"The Green Knight," Merlin said slowly, searching for any sign of recognition on the dragon's features. "Why is he killing all those people anyway? I mean, where did he come from? Why target potential allies of Camelot?"

Kilgharrah's teeth showed in what Merlin had learned to recognize as a smile, and he thought he saw a flicker of appreciation hidden there as well, like he was asking the right questions at last. Still, the dragon simply shifted his weight a little, claws sifting through the grass.

"You do not need to know anything about him," he replied, his voice dismissive, but Merlin still caught the glint in his eyes. "Nothing I can tell you would help you interfere with your friend's choices."

"But I _want_ to know more," Merlin countered firmly, unwilling to back down in this, spurred by the distinct feeling that yet again, there was something important that he was not being told. "I want to know why he's doing this, who he is, because I just don't think he's as evil as he seems to be."

A nightly breeze stirred the grass and brushed through Merlin's hair, and he felt himself tense when the forest behind him rustled once more as though in response to his words. This time he couldn't help but look over his shoulder, although the treeline was as dark and still as ever in the moonlight. No gleaming eyes watched him from the undergrowth, and no calls of dangerous beasts sounded through the night, but Merlin still felt a chill roll down his spine.

"Tell me, Merlin," Kilgharrah suddenly spoke up again, and Merlin hurriedly turned back to face him again, frowning at himself for getting distracted by the supposedly haunted forest again and again. "Do you know folk tales and songs? The kind sung by peasants at firesides when the winter comes, those that are not fit for the echoing halls of a great castle?"

Merlin just stared at the dragon for a moment, wondering whether he had indeed just made a poor attempt at a joke—it didn't seem particularly funny, though, at least not to him.

After a short, befuddled silence, Merlin began, "I don't see what that's got to do with—," but Kilgharrah gave him a distinctly impatient look, and so he just shrugged half-heartedly before continuing, "Well, I know some songs, I guess, from Ealdor. But trust me, you don't want me to sing—"

"There is a tale that has been remembered in song for centuries," the dragon explained, like he hadn't heard a word Merlin said, and Merlin gratefully trailed off and let him talk, still confused. "Though the song is well-known enough, not many people are aware that it tells the story of the last days of a battle for the Northern Plains."

Merlin sucked in a quick breath when two puzzle pieces suddenly clicked together in his head, and he took an instinctive step closer, although that meant he had to crane his neck even more to look Kilgharrah in the eye. "You mean the one against the immortal soldiers?" he pressed, excited that he'd managed to make at least that connection. "The innkeeper at Cogeltone told us about that just the other day!"

The dragon nodded, clearly pleased that Merlin was catching on quickly for once. "So you know that this forest," and he briefly inclined his head at the treeline, "was their last stronghold?"

"Yes," Merlin replied, but frowned when he thought back to what they'd been told yesterday—somehow, it felt like long ago. "Well, sort of. The innkeeper said that according to the legend, there was just one knight left to defend it in the end."

"But defend it he did," Kilgharrah said, quietly now, like their conversation was stirring up a long-forgotten memory. "And as the knight lay slain under his shield at last, the forest did not forget that he had died to protect it."

Silence descended on the field like a curtain, as though called forth by the dragon's words. Kilgharrah was watching him, his gaze somehow calculating, like he was trying to gauge whether Merlin's thoughts were going where he'd nudged them. Merlin let out a long, slow breath, and tried to think back to the long winters of his childhood before he'd come to Camelot, when his mother had told him stories and sung songs for him to pass the long nights when it had been too cold to sleep.

"Slain under his shield?" he finally repeated, dazedly, with the memory of flames crackling in the fireplace and scratchy sheets wrapped tight around him still hovering in front of his mind's eye. "That's—"

"From the song," Kilgharrah finished for him, and Merlin got the feeling that he was almost proud of him for having made that connection. It must be quite a change from his usual incomprehension, Merlin thought—but on the other hand, the dragon was unusually forthcoming with information today. "It tells the story of the forest's gratitude."

"But—," Merlin started uncertainly, and trailed off again as he struggled to remember more. He had the distinct feeling that he knew which song Kilgharrah was referring to, although it hadn't been one of Merlin's favorites back then—he'd thought it was rather boring, if he remembered correctly. There hadn't been any beasts to kill, no princesses to save, just a man dying alone.

Or not so alone, he thought as he remembered more of the different stanzas. There were definitely no words of a grateful forest in his memory, though—just a few repetitive, nonsensical lines to fill up the spaces between the story, as so many folk songs did, and a lot of animals.

"Are you sure we're talking about the same song?" he asked at last, when wracking his brains turned up no further results. "The one that's got those recurring phrases, something like _'with a down, derry, derry, derry down, down'_?"

"You might know it as the song of three ravens," Kilgharrah confirmed, and ruffled his wings again, an oddly birdlike move in the moonlight, although the dragon didn't have feathers—Merlin thought it looked like a human shifting his weight from foot to foot. "And the valiant warrior from the song introduced himself to you as the Green Knight not too long ago."

There was a pause, and Merlin felt his jaw drop, although he couldn't have stopped it if he'd tried "What?" he blurted out, when he found his voice again. "You mean the song is actually about the Green Knight? _He_ was the knight who defended the forest?"

"He is," Kilgharrah confirmed, lazily shuffling his claws through the swaying grass, like it wasn't quite as entertaining to watch Merlin grapple with the whole concept as he'd thought it would be. "Although his real name has long since been forgotten."

Merlin frowned, still lost in the memory of snow swirling past the window of Hunith's tiny hut, and thought again how odd it was to actually have the dragon talk to him in a more or less straightforward manner. But maybe this whole business with the Green Knight simply wasn't important to Kilgharrah, or at least not important enough to thoroughly confuse Merlin with riddles. He didn't seem to think that it had anything to do with Merlin's destiny, after all, which was usually the most riddle-laden topic of conversation he could think of.

"But that song...," Merlin began again, struggling to gather his thoughts and remember as much of it as he could. "There wasn't anything about a forest, was there? As far as I remember, it was about three ravens wanting to eat the dead knight, but the animals protected him—hounds," he added slowly, going through the stanzas he did remember, "and hawks, and the doe buried him."

"Precisely," Kilgharrah said, like that settled it. Merlin stared up at him in silence, trying to convey without words that it did _not_. "The forest thanked him in the only way it knew how—it granted him immortality."

The word went through him like a jolt, piercing the confused haze in his mind. His mouth went dry with the images that rushed to the front of his mind, of soldiers neither bleeding nor falling under the assault of blades. He couldn't reconcile that with his memory of the Green Knight, though, and so he finally just croaked, "Immortality?", as if repeating the word would make it easier to understand.

"Not the unclean kind that can be stolen with the help of the Cup of Life," Kilgharrah corrected sharply, clearly having followed Merlin's train of thought. "A primal, formless, real immortality that merged his soul with the forest's magic even as his body decayed into nothingness."

"Oh," Merlin breathed, relieved, and quickly discarded the thought that that kind of immortality could have been forced on the Green Knight. He shuddered to remember what it had felt like to obliterate Cenred's soldiers, to hear the unearthly ringing sound of steel tearing through immortal flesh.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, but this time Merlin felt content to let the silence stretch. The load of new information that had been dumped on him was still foreign, and he knew he'd be turning it over in his head for days to come, like oddly shaped stones he'd found on a riverbank. Even in his wildest dreams, he never would have drawn a connection between the old song and the Green Knight.

"It all makes sense," he muttered absently, staring up at Kilgharrah in wonder; the dragon huffed a little, and Merlin got the distinct impression that he'd almost rolled his eyes, because of course everything that he told Merlin made sense.

"The night when the Green Knight came to Camelot, Gaius was looking at a book," Merlin said slowly, all but feeling everything coalesce into a full picture in his head. "When I came in he was looking for something in a fairytale book, and there was a picture—"

He broke off, taking his time to dredge up the memory again. Half obscured as it had been by Gaius' arm, Merlin had still caught sight of three ravens sitting on a tree, and of the head of a dog, guarding the edge of a knight's fallen shield. It must have been an illustration of the song, but that wasn't the only thing that struck him as odd.

"I _saw_ three ravens," Merlin burst out, urgently staring up at the dragon. "There was a clearing—just outside of Torpelei we came across a clearing, and just before we left again I saw those three black birds."

Kilgharrah nodded, seeming satisfied with the conclusion that Merlin was beginning to reach. "And I saw the hounds, too," he added after a moment, the memory of their golden eyes coming more easily. "Just the other day I was riding through the fields, and they were suddenly just there—it was like they were watching me."

"Of course they were, Merlin," the dragon said when Merlin paused to look up at him expectantly. "The animals from the song became the Green Knight's friends and guardians in immortality—his eyes and ears, if you will."

"So he's been watching us all this time," Merlin muttered, and risked another glance over his shoulder at the forest. The treeline looked the same as it had when he'd last looked at it, but somehow it felt different from before, more threatening. Merlin imagined he could feel little beady eyes on him, calmly observing, shrouded in the undergrowth, and quickly turned back to Kilgharrah.

"But I just don't understand why he's doing this," he said, trying to cover up his feeling of unease. It was useless to think of all the animals that might be watching them right now, and he didn't know why he felt apprehensive at the thought of the Green Knight finding out that he was on to him anyway.

"I mean," he added, when Kilgharrah just blinked down at him calmly. "I've been telling people this all the time, and I don't know why I'm so sure about it, but he simply doesn't seem like an evil kind of person who'd just kill random noblemen for his own enjoyment."

He paused, hopefully glancing up at the dragon and trying not to look as in over his head as he felt. But Kilgharrah just sighed, blowing out a huge gust of air that stirred the hair atop Merlin's head, as if he'd been expecting Merlin to say that but wasn't quite sure how best to reply.

"He became a forest spirit," he answered at last, something old and weary in his tone, like that was the part of the tale that he didn't like sharing. "And spirits can be bound."

"Bound?" Merlin repeated when he fell silent, thoroughly confused now.

Kilgharrah gave him a disapproving look, clearly expecting Merlin to catch on more quickly, but at least the words came more smoothly when he asked, "Have you never wondered why Uther sent him away, or why Gaius knew where to look for him?"

Merlin opened his mouth, ready to reply that he _had_ wondered about that, but the dragon cut him off before he could speak. "Spirits can be bound if you know their true name," he explained. "In his lifetime, the Green Knight was known as Sir Bercilak de Hautdesert, named after the forest he defended so valiantly, and the first one to use his name against him was Nimueh."

"I don't—," Merlin began, but paused when the full meaning of the words sunk in. Then he just gaped up at Kilgharrah for a good long while, listening to the rush of blood in his ears and wondered, somewhat hazily, whether he might have misheard. But the dragon had been speaking quite clearly, and the air was still and quiet around them, so he couldn't accredit what he'd heard to the wind.

" _Nimueh?_ " he croaked at last, and Kilgharrah actually chuckled, like he was thoroughly enjoying Merlin's utter confusion.

"She sent him to Camelot a year into the Great Purge," he confirmed, and it could just have been Merlin's imagination, but he thought the dragon sounded almost amused. He must have caught wind of the whole thing somehow, chained under the castle as he'd been. "The Green Knight was under orders to challenge the court to a beheading game, but unfortunately for Nimueh, it was not Uther who responded. One of his knights died in his stead."

Merlin just shook his head, and raked his fingers through his hair in an effort to calm his whirling thoughts. "And Uther recognized him," he muttered, still remembering the stricken look on the king's face when the unusual visitor had announced why he had traveled all the way to the citadel.

Kilgharrah was silent, watching Merlin with his head cocked to the side in an oddly birdlike gesture. Merlin just stared up at him, and fought the urge to ask if he was absolutely sure about everything he'd just told him—Merlin had gone such a long time without even thinking of Nimueh that it felt thoroughly odd to learn about her involvement in this. But if he was honest with himself, he knew that the dragon wouldn't lie to him—he might present Merlin with analogues and riddles that tied his brain into knots, but he had nothing to gain from an outright lie this time.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out again. "I can't do anything, then?" he asked, frustration bubbling up and lacing his words with an edge of bitterness. "I just have to wait until Gwaine either finds the Green Chapel, wherever that might be, or the Green Knight finds him? And then I'll have to watch as he chops his head off for no good reason except that he feels like it?"

Kilgharrah fixed him with an annoyed look. "One would think, young warlock," he said, almost snapping at Merlin all of a sudden, "that you insist on stumbling along through the dark even though I have provided more than enough torches to light your way. Did you not wonder who has summoned the Green Knight this time?"

"Um," Merlin muttered, slightly chastised, because it really hadn't occurred to him to think about that. He'd been so wrapped up in his astonishment about the mention of Nimueh's name that he'd forgotten that this time, there had to be a sorcerer behind the whole matter, too.

It was hard to give a nonchalant shrug when fixed by the dragon's glare, but Merlin tried anyway. "Who summoned him, then?"

Kilgharrah blew out a disgruntled breath, once more ruffling Merlin's hair with the gust of air, although this time it felt distinctly warmer than earlier, and Merlin barely resisted the urge to take a step back. "The witch, of course."

This time, it only took him a second to catch on, and when he did, the tight, sinking feeling in his gut told him that he'd come to the right conclusion. "Morgana?" he asked in a near-whisper, suddenly cold all over although the night air had just been mildly chilly before.

The last time he'd seen her, the ceiling of the throne room had cracked open under the surge of wild, untamed magic that had spilled out of her with her screams. He still remembered the sickening crack of Morgause's head against solid stone and his own astonishment when he'd caught sight of Gaius' outstretched hand.

But most of all he remembered Morgana's eyes, golden and wild with despair as she'd crouched over the fallen body of her sister. Merlin should have known that she would seek revenge, but right then, with grief wrenching scream after hoarse scream from her throat, he hadn't thought of that.

"Yes," Kilgharrah replied, more quietly this time, almost as though he was just a little chagrined to see the shock in Merlin's eyes. "She bound him to her will and sent him to Camelot, but with less finesse and practice than Nimueh." The reptilian face shifted in a way Merlin couldn't quite interpret, but he got the impression that Kilgharrah was scrunching up his nose in distaste. "She didn't tell him where to look if nobody in Camelot proved to be worthy of his challenge."

Merlin swallowed hard, but it didn't alleviate the slightly sick feeling that had been stirred up by Kilgharrah's words. "So he's forced to search for someone worthy, and just challenges random noblemen in the hopes that they will be?"

"Not quite," the dragon said, his eyes glittering in the moonlight, and although his expression was hard to read, Merlin thought he looked satisfied, like Merlin was finally asking the right questions. "You are right to assume that the larger part of his actions is not his own, but you must understand that he is using what leeway the witch's spell left him."

"Leeway?" Merlin repeated numbly, and squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, his head beginning to spin under the continuous onslaught of new bits and pieces of the story that he hadn't known before.

"He cannot stop until the enchantment breaks," Kilgharrah stated, and shifted his weight, the rustle of leathery wings sounding loud in the nocturnal silence. "And personally, I can think of no better way to make that happen than to leave a trail of dead vassals for Emrys to follow."

Sucking in a sharp breath at the unexpected mention of that name, Merlin couldn't do anything but stare up at the dragon in befuddled silence for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. Either Kilgharrah secretly enjoyed baffling him, or he was just that easy to startle—either way, he was beginning to feel dizzy from the sheer number of astonishing things he'd been told until now.

"He's hoping _I_ might free him?" Merlin asked, a bit dismayed to hear how dull his voice sounded, like a part of him had already shrugged and integrated that fact into his worldview without a hitch. "How did he even know about me?"

Kilgharrah gave him a long, silent look, but didn't reply, and Merlin nodded absently. "Right," he said, suddenly feeling dangerously close to bursting into hysterical laughter. "Prophecies, destiny, and all that. Got it."

The grass swayed in another gust of wind. Even from this distance, he heard ancient branches creak in the forest, and couldn't help shivering again. This time, he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, though, and told himself firmly that he had nothing to fear from the forest. After what Kilgharrah had told him, he was coming to the hazy conclusion that he'd been right not to think of the Green Knight as evil all along.

The dragon rose slowly on his haunches, looking down at Merlin thoughtfully, like he was trying to assess whether all that new information had indeed sunk in. "I still don't know what to do," Merlin told him, a bit forlornly—he realized that Kilgharrah wanted to leave, probably having better things to do than sorting out Merlin's messes, but it still made him feel a bit let down.

"Perhaps you need not do anything for now," the dragon said after a pause. Merlin appreciated that he worded it as a suggestion, rather than a disgruntled command to just suck it up and deal with the fact that he might not be able to help this time around.

Merlin just sighed in reply, and watched as Kilgharrah unfolded his great wings, extending them to their full span to stretch his muscles after the long period of sitting down. Inaction didn't sit well with him, especially with impending doom hovering over Gwaine's head—and maybe over all of their heads, come to think of it, since they were about to cross the Mercian border after all.

Kilgharrah inclined his head at him, and Merlin nodded back automatically. He stepped back when the dragon crouched low, the scales on his belly brushing the grass, before he launched himself into the air. No matter how often Merlin saw it, it would always be an impressive sight—a gust of wind brushed his hair from his face as Kilgharrah soared up into the sky with a great flap of his wings, and he tilted his head back to watch. The dragon circled the field once, his course traceable only by the shine of his scales in the moonlight, and glided westwards, the rushing sound of his wings fading into the distance.

Sighing again, Merlin rubbed a hand across his face—his head felt so stuffed with information that his temples were beginning to twinge, and he hadn't noticed before how tired he was. Distantly, he wondered how much time had passed since he'd sneaked away; maybe Gwaine had already woken up for the second watch and was wondering where Merlin had gone.

He turned back in the direction he'd come from, his path of flattened grass barely visible in the moonlight. Maybe the fire hadn't gone out yet (or well, even if it had, he could always relight it with magic), which meant that his bedroll would be warm—he'd placed it close to the flames. And he'd sleep on the whole issue for a night, and maybe all the fresh knowledge that Kilgharrah had dumped on him wouldn't be quite as overwhelming the next morning.

A light breeze stirred the air as he walked towards the cluster of bushes that lined the field, and Merlin quickened his steps, shivering a little. It seemed to have gotten colder, or maybe it was just his tiredness chilling his bones—at any rate, Merlin found he was rather looking forward to getting a good night's sleep.

But there was an ominous rustle in front of him, accompanied by the snapping of twigs and a creak of bark, and Merlin stopped short, his gaze zeroing in on the bushes as his heart seemed to surge up into his throat. It was just his luck to get mauled by a wild boar this close to their camp, he thought frantically, and rifled through his memory for a useful spell as he took a slow step back—but then he froze completely when Arthur stumbled out from behind the thicket, the blade of his unsheathed dagger glinting.

Apprehensive guilt flashed through him, and Merlin opened his mouth, trying to quickly think of an excuse for being out in the field instead of keeping watch, but the words died in his throat when he caught sight of Arthur's expression. Even in the moonlight, he could tell that his face was pasty white, his eyes huge and blue and very, very incredulous as their gazes met, and Merlin swallowed hard.

"What—," Arthur started hoarsely, but any and all words seemed to desert him, and he just waved a frantic hand at the sky to indicate the direction into which the dragon had flown off, his hold on his dagger never loosening. " _Merlin_ , what—"

"Hell," Merlin said with feeling, and pressed suddenly shaky fingers to his forehead to stave off his oncoming headache.

 

  


 

In retrospect, Arthur wasn't sure what woke him—whether it was a sudden sound or the nightly breeze that chilled him. At any rate, his eyes snapped open to the sight of the dying fire, half-burned lumps of wood glowing with heat.

He lay there for a moment, forcing his breathing to remain slow and steady, and looked around as much as he could without moving his head. Tensing, he shifted his right hand beneath his blanket, very slowly, and barely suppressed a relieved sigh when he touched the reassuring hardness of the hilt of his dagger. There was nothing to be seen but the night sky, obscured by a sheet of clouds, and the dark lumpy forms of his knights around the fire, sleeping soundly.

Arthur sat up, wincing at the crick in his neck, and looked around. The fire barely illuminated their campsite, the flames too low to be crackling anymore, but Arthur could still make out the dark silhouettes of their horses. And Merlin, who was supposed to be keeping watch on a nearby fallen log, was not there.

Sighing deeply, Arthur disentangled his legs from his bedroll and stood quickly, in an attempt to shake off his lassitude. He didn't even know why he was surprised. He'd barely given Merlin a suspicious look when his manservant had offered to take the first watch, given how tired Merlin had looked after a day of riding. But he'd let it go then, thinking that Merlin probably just wanted to prove that he was capable of pulling his own weight and contributing something to the group on this quest.

And now he was gone, most likely having ran off to investigate some nocturnal animal's cry or to commune with nature or something equally inane. Arthur sighed again, mildly irritated at having his much-needed rest interrupted, because he couldn't _not_ go after Merlin now. The idiot had most likely come too close to the nearby treeline, and if there was one thing Merlin was good at, it was attracting the attention of large carnivorous animals.

Tying his largest dagger to his belt was a matter of seconds, and then Arthur was off, walking away from the camp in big, purposeful strides. He had no idea where Merlin could have gone, but he went in the general direction of the southern field on a whim. Away from the fire, the air was surprisingly cool, and it chilled the last of the residual tiredness from his mind. The weight of his weapon was reassuring at his side, but he still walked slowly, glancing around every few steps.

The clouds parted in the gentle breeze, allowing thin, blueish moonlight to illuminate his surroundings, and Arthur saw that he'd been right—somebody's feet had worn a path of flattened stalks through the grass, most likely Merlin's. The failure at stealth wasn't surprising either, but it still caused an irritating gnaw of worry to start up in the back of Arthur's mind. Anyone could have followed Merlin, and knowing his manservant, he wouldn't have noticed until he'd been clobbered over the head by a bandit's club.

Scowling, he followed Merlin's path, and resolved to give his servant a stern talking-to about how to sneak away properly, if he had to walk off during his watch at all. Arthur could all but see it—there wouldn't even need to be bandits involved for Merlin to get in trouble. Maybe he'd been attacked by a wild boar and dragged off into the forest to be feasted on by whatever evil ghosts lived there, according to the innkeeper. Or maybe he'd just tripped over something and hit his head on a random rock, and Arthur would stumble over his hypothermic unconscious body any time now.

There were no trees to duck behind, and Arthur felt uncomfortably exposed as he strode through the field, the faint scent of crushed grass permeating the air. His thoughts briefly drifted back to all the arguments he'd had with his father before they had left Camelot; the question of whether they should wear armor on their quest was one of the only things Uther had argued with him about in months. Not for the first time, though, Arthur was glad that he hadn't relented—right now, he provided enough of an easy target as it was, without chainmail for the moonlight to glint on.

He headed towards a cluster of bushes, and looked out across the gentle slope of the field as it sprawled before him. The grass was swaying gently in the breeze that was also ruffling his hair, but Arthur only saw Merlin when he'd reached the spot of undergrowth at the edge of the small hill.

In hindsight, Arthur couldn't say why he hadn't called out to Merlin to jerk his attention away from what seemed to be a silent contemplation of the field. But something prevented Arthur from even opening his mouth, and so he just stood there for a moment, staring at his manservant's faraway back with a mixture of surprise and slight wariness.

Then he lowered himself into a kneeling crouch behind the bushes, and peered through the leaves, strangely reassured in the knowledge that even if Merlin turned around, he wouldn't see him. He couldn't even see Merlin's face, but there was something in the air, an indefinable undercurrent of tension that reached Arthur even from that distance. Something was going on, and it wasn't anything that Arthur's instincts told him to barge in on.

As far as he could tell, Merlin was just standing there amidst the swaying grass, and he was— he was— His back was turned to Arthur, but Arthur thought he seemed taller somehow, his shoulders squared and his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

His head was tilted back as he watched the sky, his eyes seeming fixed on the moon like he was waiting for something, and a second later, Arthur understood why.

There was a mighty rush of moved air, and for a puzzled moment, Arthur thought it was a gust of wind that hadn't quite reached his hiding place. Then a shadow flickered across the moon, but before Arthur could focus his gaze, a huge something fell from the sky, landing right in front of Merlin with an impact that vibrated through the ground beneath Arthur's knees.

Only years' worth of battle training kept Arthur in place, but as it was, he nearly leaped up and out of the bushes anyway. His dagger sprung into his hand as though it possessed a life of its own, and although he'd been grateful for it just a moment ago, Arthur now cursed the fact that he'd won the argument with his father. If he'd taken his sword, he might have stood a chance, but not with the dagger— and the camp was too far away to run back and fetch his crossbow—

It was a dragon. A _dragon_ had landed in the field, right in front of Merlin, no less, who was standing there as though rooted to the ground, his head still tilted back—its silhouette looked huge in the moonlight, amber eyes resting on Merlin in an unhurried appraisal. Arthur felt all of his senses wake up with the rush that went through him, infusing his bones with ice even as his heart began to hammer like a battle drum.

His sight seemed to sharpen impossibly even as the edges of his vision blurred, and he couldn't mistake the cold sweat beading on the back of his neck for anything but fear, but Arthur still tightened his hold on his dagger. He would break cover as soon as Merlin shook off his shock and started to run, and with the dragon's head tilted down like that, Arthur might even hit one of its eyes when he threw the dagger. He would wait until Merlin had run past him and follow only then, rousing their camp with shouts and hoping to get to his crossbow before the beast flayed the flesh off his bones—

But Merlin wasn't running, and didn't even look particularly afraid—his stance seemed loose, easier than it had been a moment ago, like the dragon was an old acquaintance that he was relieved to see. Arthur almost laughed at the thought, but forced it back down, swallowing against the jittery feeling that crept up inside him. Merlin _wasn't running_ , and he was— Arthur squinted in the near-darkness of the moonlit night, but he was fairly sure that his eyes weren't deceiving him. He seemed to be gesturing, and although the wind didn't carry any sound towards Arthur, he thought it looked like Merlin was talking.

The great scaled head bowed down, and Arthur almost jumped up to throw his dagger anyway, but then he heard the low rumble of a voice and realized that the dragon was _answering_. Another hysterical laugh tried to bubble up in his throat—they were having a conversation, and a civil one, at that, as though it was perfectly normal for his manservant to chat with dragons who'd just landed right in front of him as though they had made an appointment.

Arthur ducked a little lower in his hiding place, making sure that the bushes hid him from the dragon's sight. He couldn't make out what they were saying from this distance, but he got the impression that Merlin listened more than he talked; the thought seemed ludicrous even to himself, but it seemed like Merlin was being given advice.

The dragon's scales shimmered in the moonlight whenever it shifted its weight, the great leathery wings twitching occasionally as though it was secretly longing to take to the skies again. Merlin was motionless save for the breeze that stirred his hair and the occasional gesture as he talked; oddly enough, he seemed at ease, if not completely relaxed. Arthur wasn't sure if it was the same dragon that his father had chained beneath the citadel, but he was willing to bet that it was—dragons were supposedly extinct, after all.

He had no idea how long he knelt there, crouched low beneath the bushes with leaves tickling his neck and cold sweat chilling his spine. By the time the dragon rose on its haunches and stretched its wings again, his muscles had been locked in the same position for so long that they protested as he sat up a bit straighter. His fingers hurt when he flexed them around the hilt of his dagger, and he realized belatedly that he'd been clutching it like a lifeline all this time.

Arthur waited, hardly daring to breathe for the sound of blood rushing in his ears, but the dragon didn't lunge at Merlin to devour or flay him, whichever seemed more appealing at that moment. It just flung itself up into the air, spiraling higher with each flap of its wings, and glided out of sight in the dim moonlight.

And Merlin, after having watched the dragon's flight for a moment, simply turned around and walked back the way he'd come, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

Before Arthur could second-guess himself, he was already stumbling out of his hiding place, his legs stiff after such a long time spent kneeling. Relief was quieting the frantic pounding of his heartbeat even as shock numbed his senses. The dragon was gone, Merlin didn't have so much as a scratch on him, and that was enough to make Arthur ignore the look of shock that crossed his face when he caught sight of Arthur.

"What—," he spluttered, the word tumbling from his mouth on its own accord as he gestured aimlessly at the sky. " _Merlin,_ what—"

"Hell," Merlin said, which wasn't all that informative, and rubbed a hand across his face as though the sight of Arthur was just another ordeal in a long string of exhausting events.

Arthur took two deep, calming breaths, sucking air into his lungs until they burned, and felt marginally more relaxed as he exhaled. "What the hell was that?" he asked, in what he felt was a calm and reasonable tone, considering what he'd just seen.

Merlin just stared at him, though, his expression somewhere between incomprehension and numb fatigue, as if the sight of his prince was just as unbelievable to him now as the dragon had been to Arthur before.

" _Merlin!_ " he snapped, and Merlin flinched, a bit of awareness returning to his eyes. He blinked slowly, his gaze dropping to Arthur's right hand that was still clutching the dagger like a lifeline. At the flicker of indecipherable emotion that flitted across Merlin's face, Arthur let out an impatient sigh and slammed the blade back into its sheath on his belt, not pausing when he heard the faint sound of ripping leather.

"Were you there the whole time?" Merlin asked at last, the words as slow as though he first had to push a million other things to the back of his mind to focus on this moment.

"The whole time you _talked to a dragon_ , yes," Arthur replied testily, still not quite believing that he was actually saying that out loud.

Merlin just sighed, the look in his eyes begging Arthur to let it go just for now and return to their campsite, but after those long, excruciating minutes of fearing that a dragon might snap Merlin's head off, Arthur was determined to get some answers out of him. He folded his arms across his chest and stared back at Merlin in silence, not quite glaring yet, but willing to go there if that was the push that his manservant needed to _start talking_.

"I—," Merlin began, but broke off again, rubbing a hand across his face as though to pull himself out of the shock that seeing Arthur had sent him into. "I just needed help," he said, his tone torn between apologetic and pleading, like he feared Arthur would condemn him, except that didn't make sense since Arthur had no idea what Merlin was on about yet.

"And that dragon helped?" Arthur asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism or to pull his eyebrow down from its high perch on his forehead.

"Yes," Merlin replied, either not noticing or not caring about the hint of sarcasm. "He— he told me things." He shrugged, but the gesture looked more tired than subdued now, although his eyes remained wary. "I still have no idea what to do, but..."

"Explain," Arthur commanded when Merlin trailed off, although he did let his arms slide down to hang loosely at his sides in an attempt to look less guarded and impatient than he felt.

No matter how much he wanted to just grab Merlin and shake him until an explanation fell out of him, it wouldn't do to push him beyond his endurance. He'd never actually promised to rein in his temper and listen rather than accuse, after their argument on Beltane eve, but it seemed like the resolve had crept up on him anyway.

He saw Merlin's throat work as he swallowed, and realized right then that this would be bad. It would be another thing that Merlin had kept from him, tied in with his magic as all of his secrecy seemed to be these days, like a well-hidden gift finally put into Arthur's tentative hands. The thought made him frown, felt unwieldy and strange in the angles and planes of his mind, and he pushed it away with some difficulty.

Merlin took a deep, shaky breath, and drew himself up to his full height, much as he had done when he'd waited for the dragon. His voice shook, but he didn't break Arthur's gaze even for a second when he said, quietly, "I'm a Dragonlord."

For just a moment, Arthur thought he might have misheard, but the tight, unreadable expression on Merlin's features assured him that his ears were working just fine. He closed his mouth, dimly realizing that it must have dropped open on its own accord, and finally just choked out, "What?"

"I didn't used to be," Merlin replied hastily, as though that made it less unbelievable in any way. He was fidgeting now, Arthur noticed dimly, long, pale fingers toying with the cuffs of his sleeves in that way that meant he couldn't help himself, and just needed an outlet for his mounting nervousness. "I had no idea they even existed until—"

He stopped, and swallowed again, seeming to gulp down more than an obstruction in his throat. "Apparently it runs in the family," he stated, slightly breathlessly, like he was trying to push the words out before his courage deserted him. "It's passed down from— from father to son."

It took Arthur even longer to come to terms with that, but then he just shook his head in incomprehension. Merlin was looking at him with a pinched expression, shoulders hunched like he wanted to curl into himself for protection, though from what, Arthur didn't know. A memory rose from the depths of his mind, of a journey and a conversation deep in the woods, a crackling fire that hadn't warmed him as much as the shared words.

"You said you never knew your father," Arthur pointed out; the words came out softer than he'd intended, but Merlin's head jerked up as though he'd been struck. He opened his mouth and closed it again, and Arthur almost took a step towards him at the sudden desperation in his eyes. He'd clearly caught on to what Arthur was remembering.

"It was true then," Merlin insisted when he found his voice, the words slightly choked. "I didn't lie to you about that, I swear."

 _What else didn't you lie about, then?_ a small voice piped up at the back of his mind, but Arthur gritted his teeth against the words until the urge to say them subsided. Rationally, he knew that he was just feeling stung and betrayed again, that anger was simply the only way he knew how to deal with all this, and that it had become his default reaction over the past few months. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, struggling to regain his composure.

"Alright," he muttered at last, although the single word felt too big in the heavy silence that it broke. Merlin was watching him anxiously, not quite warily, and Arthur gestured for him to continue. "Go on."

Merlin glanced away, breaking his gaze for the first time to gaze down at his feet and run a shaking hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, like he was afraid of what he would say next, although Arthur didn't know if it was just fear of what his reaction would be, or something more.

Nevertheless, he braced himself when Merlin hunched over a little more, and found himself grateful when Merlin swallowed hard and said, the words barely audible, "Balinor was my father."

More effectively than Arthur's struggle for compose, the words cut through the remnant sting that was still smoldering in the back of his mind. He stared at Merlin, and Merlin stared back for a second before he averted his gaze again, but Arthur couldn't blame him for not wanting to see the disbelief that must have been written all across his features.

Although he hadn't thought about it that often, it seemed like barely a day had passed since then when the memory of the day they'd spent with the man rushed back. Arthur hadn't spared much thought to Balinor's prickly moodiness; he'd only been interested in what he could do to save Camelot, after all, but Merlin clearly had. They must have talked more than Arthur had realized at the time, though after a lifetime of separation— _Merlin's_ lifetime, at that—it couldn't have been nearly enough.

And of course Arthur remembered how he had died, taking a blow that had been meant for Merlin—his son, Arthur thought suddenly, and realized that Balinor, like Merlin, must have known. Arthur had never talked to Merlin about it, although he probably should have, but given how desperate Merlin had been to hide his tears and carry on like nothing had happened, Arthur had been hesitant to bring it up.

"God, Merlin," he said helplessly, barely noticing that he'd taken a step closer at some point. Something seemed to have gotten stuck in his throat, and he wanted to reach out and touch, trail his fingers down Merlin's arm like he hadn't back then.

Merlin tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace of remembered pain, clearly hearing what Arthur hadn't said. He looked distant somehow, far away, although he hadn't moved. Arthur watched in feeble silence as Merlin took a deep breath, words clogging up his throat and fighting through the layer of shock, and he was so preoccupied with shoving them back down that he nearly missed that Merlin was talking again.

"I didn't know before," Merlin said, his voice dull, now that the earlier storm of emotion had blown itself out. "And after he—," _died_ , Arthur finished mentally when Merlin broke off again. Even after all this time, the word seemed too hard for him to say, and Arthur nodded silently to show that he understood, that Merlin didn't have to. Merlin gave him another wavering smile, and finished, "I didn't quite realize that his powers had passed on to me until I sent the dragon away."

"The dragon?" Arthur repeated, jolted out of his earlier thoughts by the sheer unexpectedness of that statement. For a moment he didn't even realize what Merlin was talking about, but then awareness crept back in, along with a dim sort of surprise. "Oh, that dragon."

The sound of the wind rustling through the nearby treeline seemed loud in the sudden hush. Of course Merlin would tell him that _he_ had defeated the dragon, Arthur thought sourly—he wasn't one to question the greatness of his prowess in battle, after all. It had been the safest way to ensure that Arthur wouldn't suspect a lie, and he couldn't help but be impressed rather than annoyed at Merlin's unexpectedly clever plan.

"Wait," Arthur muttered at last, because another thought had just sneaked up on him. Merlin had sent the dragon away, so he could probably summon it too, if he wanted to—but no, Arthur thought, Merlin wouldn't seek out the company of the beast that had killed so many and reduced Camelot's lower town to rubble.

Nevertheless, he waved a careless hand at the sky to indicate what he meant, and found himself frowning when Merlin looked sheepish rather than confused. " _That_ dragon?"

"His name is Kilgharrah," Merlin said carefully, and Arthur gaped at him in stunned incomprehension. "He's not— well, he's usually quite fond of riddles and he was really mad at having been chained under the castle, but he's not _evil_ , not really."

"First the Green Knight, and now a _dragon_ ," Arthur snapped when he'd found his voice, and pointed an imperious finger at his manservant, not quite surprised at the extent of his naivete. "Merlin, when will you get it into that _thick head_ of yours that not every magical being is like you?"

Merlin flinched slightly at his raised voice, defiance sparking through his eyes, but then he went utterly still and silent, staring at Arthur in mute wonder. The nightly breeze stirred his hair and tugged gently at his clothes, but Merlin didn't seem to notice the chilly air—he just went right on staring, his eyes wide and fever-bright in the moonlight. Gentle shadows smudged his features, and for just a second Arthur was reminded of that long, ethereal moment at Sir Ricbert's house when he'd all but _seen_ the power thrumming just out of reach beneath Merlin's skin.

"The dragon could have _killed_ you," Arthur went on, unsettled by the hopeful, intense look Merlin was giving him, "it could have snapped your head right off with those giant jaws, or burned you to a crisp to get back at you for—"

" _I'm_ not evil, then?" Merlin interrupted, clearly not having heard a word of Arthur's tirade. His voice shook, although he made a brave attempt at concealing the tremor, and Arthur threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Of course you aren't, you dolt!" he exclaimed, the words too loud in the nocturnal hush. "You're—"

He broke off as the full impact of what he'd said hit him, and stared back at Merlin in mute surprise for a moment. This was almost like their nightly talk at the inn, except that this time, it seemed to be going right. Merlin looked like he couldn't quite believe what Arthur was saying, but the hopeful, slightly terrified glimmer in his eyes told him that he wanted to.

"My manservant," Arthur finished, attempting to sound imperious and infuse the situation with some shred of normalcy. Merlin choked on a laugh, the noise surprised out of him as the tension in the air seemed to break.

Merlin's eyes still seemed brighter than normal, but the urgency was wiped away by the tentative smile that broke out across his face. Arthur found himself smiling back helplessly, something in his chest loosening as a strange warmth spread through him, but for once he didn't feel like second-guessing it.

They just stood there for a while, but although Arthur was dimly aware that they'd already been holding each other's gazes for far too long, he couldn't bring himself to look away. Merlin sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his shoulders slumping visibly as some of the accumulated tension melted out of his stance. He looked more tired than he had just a moment ago, like he'd been holding on to a hidden strain for far longer than just tonight.

"So, um," Merlin said at last, clearing his throat when his voice came out sounding scratchy. He shuffled his feet in the grass and jerked his head in the general direction of their campsite. "Shouldn't we go back?"

"We should," Arthur agreed, privately glad that Merlin had been the first to admit to his fatigue—it _was_ the middle of the night, after all, and it looked like they were in for another day of riding. "You've kept me awake for far too long anyway."

Merlin muttered something that sounded like _you didn't have to follow me_ , but Arthur graciously chose to let that go. He turned and started walking back the way he'd come, following the path of flattened grass that Merlin had made earlier on his way to the field. His manservant fell into step behind him, feet dragging audibly through the grass, and for some reason Arthur was reminded of that moment near the beginning of their journey, when Merlin had followed him to the lake and then back again.

He'd been angry then, unable to cut through the confusing jumble of conflicting emotions that stirred within him whenever he saw Merlin, but this was different. This time, Merlin didn't walk behind him out of misguided deference, and clearly didn't even try to stay well out of Arthur's reach, if the way his feet kept nipping at the back of Arthur's heels every so often was anything to go by. He seemed to walk behind him because he wanted to follow.

The fire had been stoked and fed when they reached their camp, flames crackling merrily around a few thick branches. The warmth felt stifling after such a long time spent out in the chill of the night, and Merlin edged closer with a pleased sound, almost tripping over one of their bags in his haste to warm his hands.

It took Arthur a moment to spot Gwaine, sitting on a fallen log and idly cutting strips of wood from a leafy branch. His hair was sticking up every which way, and his clothes were still rumpled from sleeping in them, although he looked awake and alert as their gazes met. He must have wondered where they'd gone, but apparently he'd had the presence of mind not to search for them, choosing to keep watch over the camp instead.

Gwaine's dagger paused in mid air, and his eyebrows slowly climbed towards his hairline, gaze traveling from Arthur to Merlin and back again. Merlin just gave him a sunny—if tired—smile, but Arthur felt his insides clench uncomfortably under the scrutiny. He wondered what Gwaine had thought upon finding both of them gone, but at the same time, he got the distinct feeling that he shouldn't want to know.

"Not a word," Arthur warned as he sat down amidst his blankets, but as soon as he'd said it, he realized his mistake. A slow smile spread across Gwaine's features, his teeth gleaming in the firelight as he winked at them and went back to hacking at the branch with his knife. Arthur frowned, but Merlin just rolled his eyes at Gwaine, a little pink in the cheeks, probably from the heat of the fire.

Merlin walked back to his bedroll, but although he was picking his steps carefully, Arthur heard a muffled thump as his foot connected with Leon's shin. Arthur tensed, half expecting the older knight to leap up with his dagger in hand, but Leon just yawned and poked his head out of his bedroll, not seeming to hear Merlin's whispered apologies. He glanced around in confusion, as though he couldn't figure out why they were awake at such an ungodly hour, and finally slurred, "Wha' happened?"

Gwaine grinned with anticipation, leaning forward as though to share a secret. "Merlin and Arthur were—"

"Going back to sleep," Merlin finished smoothly, and sat down on his bedroll as well. This time it was Arthur who rolled his eyes, but he didn't say anything as he slowly stretched out under his covers, shivering a little at the coldness of the fabric.

"Great," Gwaine said into the silence, watching with a slightly sour expression as Merlin tugged his own blankets up to his chin and grinned at him from the other side of the fire. "I'll just take the next watch too, then."

"Good man," Leon mumbled, turned over amidst his blankets, and fell back asleep within a few seconds, his quiet snoring the only sound that interrupted the crackle of the fire.

Arthur smiled to himself, checking absently whether his other two daggers were still where he'd put them last evening, tucked just under the edge of his blankets within easy reach. Reassured by the touch of cold steel, he rolled over to face away from the others, letting the warmth of the fire slowly coat his back.

Just a moment later, deep, snuffling breaths reached him from Merlin's general direction; it seemed like his manservant had been more tired than he'd let on all along. Or maybe it was just the fact that they'd talked to each other without shouting or storming off that relaxed him into a quick slumber. And well, he _had_ spent half an hour talking to a dragon, which must have been exhausting in its own right.

Only when Arthur's eyes started to droop shut did it occur to him that he had forgotten to ask Merlin why he'd had to ask the dragon for help in the first place.

 

  


 

Although he'd felt utterly relaxed when he had finally gone to sleep again the night before, Merlin woke up with a ball of tension knotted in his gut the next morning.

At first he thought it was just the effect of residual nerves from last night, and he did his best not to let it show as he helped Lancelot butcher a rabbit for breakfast and divided the last of their dried fruit between all of them. Breakfast was a quiet affair, the clouds hanging oppressively low above the fields—what little light penetrated the thick sheets seemed feeble and thin, like watered wine, as Gwaine proclaimed after a bleary look up at the sky.

They broke camp mid-morning, but even the food didn't help to alleviate the tight, shivery feeling that plucked at Merlin's muscles. His stomach kept clenching as he tied their luggage to the packhorse, as though there was a fist in his belly that squeezed relentlessly whenever the urge arose. He took to sneaking surreptitious glances at Arthur, but even the sight of the prince trying to look awake and alert while it was clear that he hadn't gotten much sleep didn't alleviate the faint nausea.

Finally, when he was mounting his horse and shrugged the feeling off as residual fatigue, Merlin realized what had him so on edge. Up on horseback, the forest seemed to loom impossibly closer, the treeline dark and impenetrable in the wan light. For a moment, he thought he could see the individual leaves, gleaming green and bloated with sunlight and water, rubbing against each other in delighted anticipation of the rain that was sure to pour from the skies today.

Merlin took a deep breath to steady himself, and tossed a fleeting smile to Leon, who was looking at him with a hint of concern. He lined up behind the knight, putting a steadying hand on his horse's neck as it tossed its head in protest at his too-tight hold on the reins. And then they were off, Arthur leading them on a winding overgrown path that the innkeeper had assured them would lead to the forest at some point.

The rain started as the hidden sun rose higher in the sky, fighting to brighten their surroundings and failing miserably as the first fat drops landed on Merlin's cheek. He could hear Gwaine swear behind him, but in fact he didn't mind the rain all that much—it wasn't cold, after all, and the wetness was somewhat refreshing. The scent of crushed grass mingled with that of wet earth, and he sucked in a deep lungful of the flavor, trying to let it calm his nerves.

He didn't even know why he felt so edgy, why he wanted nothing more than to turn his horse around and steer it as far away from the looming treeline as possible. Sure, it _was_ kind of daunting to enter the Green Knight's domain, but after the conversation with Kilgharrah, he was more convinced than ever that they had nothing to fear from him. Maybe it was because he knew now that Morgana was the culprit behind everything, the one who had roused the Green Knight from his sleep in the first place.

The forest looked more and more impenetrable the closer they got, a thick canopy of leaves creating a kind of natural archway above the winding trail that they were following. It would be even darker under the dripping trees, but none of the others seemed to share Merlin's reservations. Arthur was urging Llamrei forward at a steady pace, with Lancelot and Leon following, and Merlin and Gwaine were at the rear.

Even from this distance, an almighty dripping noise reached his ears as the forest was slowly drenched in early summer rain; the trail would be reduced to mud by the time they stopped for rest tonight. Merlin thought he could see ivy leaves twined around the ancient trunks, glittering with water, and the sight made him swallow hard against another surge of inexplicable apprehension.

Ahead of him, Leon impatiently wiped his dripping hair out of his face, but didn't seem at all perturbed at the sight of the huge, ancient trees and the thicket that seemed to protect the rest of the forest from view. Merlin jerked his gaze away from the treeline with some difficulty and gazed out at the soggy fields instead, long grass drooping under the onslaught of water.

All of a sudden, he remembered the song. It still felt odd to even think of it now, since he'd last heard it as a child and had even thought of it as somewhat boring back then; but something about the fields jogged his memory. Right now, they might be riding through the grassy slope where the Green Knight had died. Merlin remembered that line— _down in yonder green field, there lies a knight slain under his shield_ —and shuddered involuntarily, hoping that he didn't mind that they were most likely trespassing on his grave.

But then again, according to the legend, the animals had dragged him off into the forest and buried him there, so maybe this wasn't his grave after all. Merlin shook his head to chase the memory away, but unfortunately, the thought of Morgana slunk back into the momentary void of hazy anxiety in his mind.

Maybe that really was the crux of the matter, Merlin thought, as the trees towered tall above him and filled his vision with wet, darkened green. He didn't know, _couldn't_ know if they might be walking into a trap—despite the dragon's words, he had no idea if Morgana had planned this all along, or if it was indeed the Green Knight who had led them here in hopes of Merlin's help.

Ahead of him, Leon ducked to avoid a wet branch as he followed Lancelot and Arthur under the shady, dripping canopy of leaves. Merlin took a deep breath as he urged his horse to follow—and a second later, when the shadows engulfed him and a branch brushed his shoulder, he was grateful for it.

It felt like a great weight slammed into him, pushing the air out of his chest again and engulfing him in a pocket of bright, sizzling energy. There'd been nothing leading up to it, no tell-tale shimmer in the air as they'd entered the forest, and yet Merlin knew, in the split-second that it took for his vision to sharpen impossibly, that it was magic.

He gasped aloud at the answering surge of power that crested up in him, thrumming through his bones, and he _felt_ his eyes go golden but he couldn't close them, couldn't even suck in some much-needed air as the world shook and convulsed around him. It felt like being yanked at by clumsy, curious fingers, his magic pulled up to the surface to tremble beneath his skin, infusing his veins with unbearable heat.

There was no way to call for help, no defense against the sensory assault. His ears filled with a cacophony of noise—the dripping water, the sounds of hooves squelching in the mud, it all mingled into a high, unearthly ringing. The silvery light that edged his vision looked familiar even as it mingled with black, and Merlin had just enough time to realize that _this_ was the essence of the wild magic he'd felt in the Green Knight all along.

Then the world seemed to tilt crazily, but just before he blacked out, Merlin understood that it was _him_ who was falling. Either way, he was helpless to do anything but succumb to the unearthing tide, and he closed his eyes and went under.

 

  


 

As preoccupied as he was with staring in wonder at the thick, impenetrable mass of dripping undergrowth around them, Gwaine didn't see Merlin fall—but luckily, Gryngolet did.

The reins were yanked from his hands as his steed suddenly reared up; as wet as the saddle was, Gwaine nearly slid off, but managed to grip Gryngolet's flanks with his legs just in time. Only then did he saw Merlin, crumpled on the muddy ground with one of his feet still caught in its stirrup, and Gwaine gripped the white mane in front of him, holding on for dear life as Gryngolet threw his great weight to the side to avoid stepping on Merlin's fallen body.

"Shit," Gwaine breathed, once all of the stallion's hooves were firmly back on solid ground, barely a foot from Merlin's head, and then he was shouting, "Arthur, Arthur, _stop!_ " even as he dismounted clumsily, nearly ending up in a heap on the ground as well.

He barely noticed the mud as he skidded to his knees beside Merlin, gripping his shoulder and rolling him over. Confused voices reached his ears before the sound was swallowed up by the thicket around them, but Gwaine paid them no heed. Merlin's face was pasty white, his pallor standing out in stark contrast to the mud that coated his cheek; his eyes weren't quite closed, the whites barely visible under fluttering lids.

"Merlin?" Gwaine said loudly, reining in his urge to shake his friend back into consciousness—he didn't know what had toppled him out of the saddle, after all, whether he'd gotten injured somehow. Merlin's face was wet from the rain, and his skin felt cold when Gwaine touched his cheek.

A splash of mud slopped over his sleeve when Arthur dropped to his knees on Merlin's other side, eyes wide as they skittered across Merlin's slack features. His hands hovered uselessly for a moment before he yanked Merlin's mud-splattered neckerchief down to check his pulse.

"What happened?" he exclaimed, practically shouting in Gwaine's face, but Gwaine couldn't bring himself to even get irritated. Up close, he could see that Arthur's fingers weren't shaking, probably taking up all the self-control that didn't go into his voice, although he pulled away after a moment. Gwaine wasted no time in getting his hand where Arthur's had just been, and allowed himself a sigh of relief when he felt Merlin's heartbeat, fluttering and shallow against his fingertips.

"I don't know!" Gwaine shouted back, just as unable to control the volume of his voice. His heart was beginning to hammer in his throat, and he fought down a dizzying rush when he remembered how Gryngolet had reared up—he would have stepped on Merlin if he hadn't reacted so quickly. "He just dropped like a stone—"

There was a squelch of wet earth as someone whirled around, and Gwaine looked up for the first time, noticing that both Lancelot and Leon were now eyeing the forest warily, hands within easy reach of their daggers. Merlin's horse was standing off to the side, flanks heaving as though it had been just as shocked by its rider's fall as the rest of them.

Judging from the expression on Arthur's face, routine was all that kept his hands from trembling as he quickly patted Merlin down in search of injuries. Gwaine simply watched, unable to remove his fingers from the pulse point at Merlin's jaw. In the back of his mind, he knew he was being stupid—Merlin had just passed out and taken a tumble off his horse, it wasn't like he'd been gored by a sword on a raging battlefield. But Merlin didn't even move as Arthur checked him for injuries, and the sight of raindrops collecting in the corners of his eyes was deeply unsettling.

"No wounds," Arthur said at last, and Leon let out a sigh, removing his hand from the hilt of his knife. "No crossbow bolt, nothing."

There was a short, uncertain silence where no one seemed to know what to reply, and Gwaine reluctantly removed his fingers, clasping his hand loosely around Merlin's mud-coated shoulder instead. Even if he hadn't been unhorsed by an arrow, he would be fairly sore from the fall when he woke up.

"Did he sleep enough?" Lancelot asked at last, sounding at a loss for anything else to say, but Arthur was already shaking his head before he'd finished speaking.

"Merlin wouldn't pass out just from a lack of sleep," he answered, eyes fixed on Merlin's face as a crease appeared between his eyebrows. Gwaine usually associated that expression with annoyance, since he'd seen it only in the training grounds, but now, the worry in Arthur's eyes was almost hard to look at.

"Because he's had so much of that in your service?" Gwaine blurted out before he could stop himself, but no one laughed, and Arthur didn't even seem to have heard him.

"Merlin," he said softly, patting his cheek with unusual gentleness at first, and then a little more forcefully when Merlin didn't react.

He couldn't bring himself to actually slap him, though, and relented after a moment, his hand cupping Merlin's head as though he'd forgotten it was there. Gwaine couldn't help staring at it, noticing the way Arthur's fingers sunk into Merlin's wet hair as though they'd always belonged there. Above them, Lancelot coughed; he was already averting his gaze when Gwaine looked up at him, glancing away into the forest with a slightly troubled expression.

"We'll set up camp in the next clearing we find," Arthur declared, the words sudden and loud in the silence, and Gwaine found himself oddly relieved at the decisiveness in his tone. He could deal with Arthur best when he bossed them around. "We'll stay til Merlin wakes up."

"We could stock up on supplies, too," Leon piped up, seeming glad of the chance to say something useful. "Gwaine already knows how much fun hunting in the rain can be."

Gwaine made a face at him, but didn't object—the older knight was right, after all, and with the overall warmth of the early summer air, he didn't actually mind the rain all that much. And hunting would provide a distraction while they waited for Merlin to wake again.

He didn't say anything when Arthur hooked one arm beneath Merlin's knees, the other going around his shoulders with an utter disregard for the muddy state of Merlin's attire—if Arthur was going to willingly ruin his clothes, Gwaine wasn't one to stop him. Merlin's head lolled sickeningly when he was lifted off the ground, but the prince adjusted his hold, staggering slightly under the added weight.

Gryngolet still stood where Gwaine had left him, for once not getting up to any of his usual antics when his rider mounted up into the slippery saddle again. It was like the stallion understood the seriousness of the situation, and Gwaine put a hand on the white neck in silent gratitude, still remembering the whirl of hooves so close to Merlin's head.

"Gwaine and I could ride ahead," Leon said, jolting Gwaine out of his thoughts. He had climbed back into his saddle as well, and was looking at Arthur now, who was standing with his feet slid apart to brace Merlin's weight. "And you'll get Merlin up on Llamrei—"

"Good idea," Arthur replied, his voice scratchy with disuse, but he hefted Merlin's body a little higher in his arms, apparently unwilling to drop him back onto the ground for the time it would take Leon and Gwaine to find a clearing.

Leon turned to him, eyebrows raised, and Gwaine gave him a belated nod, taking a deep breath to focus his thoughts on the task ahead. They'd take the packhorse along and find a nice clearing, set up a makeshift tent with the swathes of thick cloth that they'd packed for that purpose. Whatever had happened to Merlin, he would be in good hands until they could get him somewhere dry and close to a fire.

They rode in silence, pursuing the trail they'd been following in the first place, although Gwaine could have sworn that the sharp left turn that dropped the others out of sight hadn't been there before. Judging from the pitter-patter of water above them, the rain hadn't let up at all, but the leaves were shielding their heads from most of it. Water glistened on ancient tree trunks, running down the jagged bark to soak the earth. Gwaine felt oddly disconnected from the world—they had only just ventured past the treeline, but it felt like they'd already reached the heart of the forest.

A glint of dark green caught his attention at the edge of his vision, and Gwaine blinked in surprise when he saw the familiar shapes of ivy leaves shining with moisture against dark, mossy bark. They seemed to be everywhere, now that he'd noticed them, twining up and up into the treetops far above his head.

Even in the dim light, Gwaine could see the tiny veins cutting through the thick leaves in brighter green, bloated with water as though they'd drunk their fill in the downpour. The sight made him thirsty somehow, and he found himself curiously unable to look away, craning his neck to keep the ivy in his vision for as long as possible.

"What the—," Leon suddenly said, sounding utterly dumbfounded, and Gwaine reluctantly jerked his gaze back to what was in front of him.

The forest had opened up into a clearing—which wouldn't be all that unusual, but Gwaine caught on to the source of Leon's confusion after just a second. The trees stood thick and close around the glade, gnarled branches building a canopy of leaves that was only slightly thinner than that over the path they'd been following.

It looked like it had been carved out of the woods, except there were no dead stumps to indicate where trees might have been cut down. The grass was shorter than in the rest of the undergrowth, too, and Gwaine spotted a small copse of birches on the far side of the clearing, perfect for setting up a makeshift tent under.

"Well, it _is_ a clearing," Gwaine said eventually, shrugging a little—sure, it was a strange glade, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Leon nodded, steering his horse back around as though he'd just waited for some sort of confirmation that he wasn't the only one who felt wary about the whole thing. "I'll get the others," he replied, and urged his steed back onto the path.

Gwaine listened to the rustle of grass and the snapping of twigs that followed in Leon's pace, and slowly slid off of Gryngolet's back. The stallion seemed just as on edge as Leon had been; Gwaine could see the whites in his eyes when he'd dismounted, but at least he wasn't bolting and running off into the woods. The packhorse seemed even more skittish when Gwaine approached it, but it still allowed him to pull the luggage from its back.

It was only minutes until Leon returned, Lancelot in tow, with Arthur riding along behind the two. Gwaine had expected him to just sling Merlin's unconscious body across the saddle, but Arthur was riding with Merlin braced against his chest, head tucked safely into the crook of his neck with Arthur's arms around him. The position looked oddly intimate, and Gwaine found himself averting his gaze before he could second-guess himself.

He moved to help Lancelot unroll the thick bundles of fabric and carry them over to the copse of birches. Oddly enough, the patch of grass there was just slightly damp, instead of as thoroughly soaked as the rest of the clearing. It took them some time to set up a makeshift tent, but in the end they tied swathes of oilcloth between the trees to keep out the rain and the wind.

Merlin was still and silent when they carried him over, and didn't stir when Arthur wordlessly piled most of their blankets on his prone form. Leon, bless his foresight, had gathered some firewood that was only slightly wet in the meantime, and with some careful fanning, the small embers were coaxed to become flames. Gwaine sat down next to Merlin, staring into the fire without really seeing it—although if he had paid more attention, he probably would have noticed that it burned with strange brightness despite the rain, the flames hissing but not flickering when water dripped into them.

No one spoke when Leon and Lancelot sat down beneath their shelter as well; as if on cue, their gazes came to rest on Merlin, buried under an array of thick covers. Gwaine noticed that Arthur's tunic looked decidedly worse for wear, although the prince didn't seem to care about the mud that was slowly drying all along his front. Someone had wiped the dirt from Merlin's face too, and Gwaine mentally ran through the array of snarky comments he could have made about that, but decided against voicing them in the end. No matter what anyone said, he _could_ be tactful if he wanted to.

When the rain let up after a wile, no one noticed at first, until Leon stuck his hand out from beneath their improvised tent—the trees continued to drip with wetness around them, but Lancelot jumped up like he'd just been waiting for the rain to stop.

He turned to Gwaine with a smile that looked only slightly forced, and spread his hands. "What about that hunt, then?" he asked lightly, ignoring Gwaine's groan. "We _do_ need supplies, you know."

As averse as he was to the idea of trudging through the drenched woods, Gwaine knew that Lancelot was right, and that it would do him some good to actually _do_ something. Well, something that didn't involve listening to Merlin's slow breathing, and to what he could swear was the sound of Arthur gnashing his teeth.

Gwaine took one last look at Merlin before getting up, though. He seemed slightly less pale, although he still hadn't stirred at all; Gwaine leaned over to put the back of his hand against his cheek, grateful to find that the skin was at least warm.

His muscles felt stiff and unused when he stood, and he took care to stretch his arms above his head as he followed Lancelot back to the path that had led them into the clearing. If they stuck to the edge of the forest, he might not even get as soaked as he had when he'd first hunted right after a downpour with Lancelot. And it must be nearing lunch time by now, as his stomach was already rumbling at the thought of grilled rabbit or venison—maybe the smell of food would rouse Merlin from his unconscious state, too.

He'd been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't notice that Lancelot had stopped walking until he bumped into his back. The other knight stumbled forward, but didn't seem annoyed; he was gazing at the treeline like he'd never seen it before. Gwaine had to step around him to get a good look at whatever had him so transfixed, but then he understood.

The path was gone. Gwaine just stared for a while, convinced that his eyes were somehow deceiving him—then he turned back to their camp, trying to estimate the distance, but they'd followed the same way they'd come. He could even see hoof prints in the mud, leading towards what _had_ been a path some time ago, but which was now a mass of bushes and a huge oak tree.

"I— what?" Lancelot said into the silence, the same confusion that Gwaine was feeling in his voice. His head swiveled around again, back and forth between their camp and the impossibility in front of them.

Apparently the others had noticed that something was off by now. Leon was already jogging towards them, and Arthur had risen from where he'd been sitting next to Merlin, suspicion in his eyes. He took only a few steps towards them, though, not seeming to want to leave Merlin lying next to the fire all on his own, but as small as the clearing was, he was well within earshot already.

"But the path was here," Lancelot insisted, as if saying it aloud would make it true. Leon just shook his head, his gaze traveling up and down the oak tree like he was hoping it would disappear if he just looked at it for long enough. He even touched a hesitant hand to the wet bark, but the tree stayed put.

"Strange," Gwaine said, at the same time that Leon breathed, "Magic," though not with the wary fear that Gwaine had gotten accustomed to hearing in Camelot. He sounded— awed, almost, like he couldn't believe his eyes but wasn't afraid of what he saw. For some reason, his gaze flickered back to Merlin, still lying motionless in his nest of blankets.

When Gwaine looked towards their camp as well, Arthur had come closer, stepping to the side as though to block Leon's line of sight, his features set into a tight mask that barely managed to conceal the guarded wariness beneath. Leon turned back to the tree, oblivious to the long, hard stare Arthur fixed him with, but after a moment the tension reluctantly melted out of the prince's shoulders.

"Magically disappearing paths or no, we still need to hunt," Gwaine pointed out at last, when the silence had stretched for long enough. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at the others—even after all this time in Camelot, it still struck him as a bit ridiculous what stunned fear the mere mention of sorcery could evoke. They were battle-hardened warriors, and while this sudden appearance of a tree was certainly unexpected, it shouldn't send them into an indecisive stupor.

Leon, at least, seemed to agree with him, because he swept a quick look around the glade before pointing to their left. "Look," he said, and Gwaine wasn't all that surprised to see a gap under the trees when he followed his gaze. "There's another path."

That one certainly hadn't been there before, although it looked like it had. It wasn't as muddy as the other one had been, and fresh grass seemed to grow at its sides, curling towards the feeble light that trickled through the leaves. Lancelot blew out a breath that sounded distinctly skeptical, and Leon shrugged, giving them an uncertain look. "Maybe the forest wants you to hunt over there, rather than here?"

Gwaine thought about all the things that were wrong with that sentence, and decided, quite loftily, that he didn't care about any of them as long as they didn't stop him from getting food some time soon. "Fair enough," he said, grabbed Lancelot's arm and strode off towards the new path. "Come on, we haven't got all day."

Arthur looked troubled when they walked past him, but he didn't object—which was quite an improvement, considering the fact that he'd grown up with his father indoctrinating him with anti-magic tirades. Gwaine gave him an easy grin in reward, although he felt it falter a bit when his gaze accidentally skimmed Merlin again. He sped up his steps, letting go of Lancelot when the other knight fell into step beside him.

The forest didn't look any different around this path, Gwaine noted as they once more plunged beneath the shady trees. The undergrowth was just as thick, some trees just as richly adorned with ivy, and they had to take care not to trip over any of the gnarled roots that made the ground uneven. No magical monsters jumped out from behind bushes either, and Gwaine felt himself relax, somewhat vindicated that he'd been right not to be scared.

Lancelot edged in front of him, crossbow in hand, and Gwaine fell back easily, grateful for the other knight's foresight—he'd been so eager to get up and do something that he'd forgotten to take along some other weapon than his knives. He took to perusing the trees around them, listening to the drip-drip-drip of water that accompanied each step, and trying to see tell-tale flashes of brown fur through the bushes.

The path led them deeper into the woods, and Lancelot shot two rabbits before long, passing them on for Gwaine to sling them over his shoulder. The forest seemed to recover from the earlier downpour of water—birds' voices started to fill the silence, calling out through the trees as though to assure each other that the rain was over for now. Another rabbit joined the first two on Gwaine's shoulder, and Lancelot slung his crossbow over his shoulder in mute agreement with Gwaine—the animals were rather big, after all, and grilled thoroughly, they would last for lunch as well as dinner.

But when they turned to follow the path back to the camp, it was suddenly leading up a rocky slope, disappearing between two huge pine trees that looked like they'd attempt to scratch their eyes out if they dared to venture any closer. Gwaine sighed, more in annoyance than in genuine fear, and hefted the rabbits up a little higher.

"That hill wasn't there just a moment ago," he declared, and Lancelot nodded mutely, staring at it like he thought he should know better than to doubt his eyes by now. "And neither were those pines, and the path is different too."

Lancelot sighed, and nodded again. "Looks like we'll have to rely on our sense of direction to take us back to the clearing."

"What sense of direction?" Gwaine asked, conversationally, and grinned when Lancelot rolled his eyes at him. "Right," he said, and looked around at the dripping leaves and the water-logged moss that covered the ground. Eventually, he pointed at a couple of birches where their original path had been just a minute ago. "We came from right around... there."

Lancelot sighed once more, but didn't protest when Gwaine strode off into the direction he'd indicated. Leaves rustled in his wake as branches snagged his hair and clothes, and little twigs snapped wherever he stepped, but their surroundings didn't seem to mind that they were off the beaten tracks now. The sheer strangeness of the thought made Gwaine pause for a moment. It had come to him readily and without wariness, as though a part of him had already accepted the forest as a sentient magical entity with little more fuss than a shrug.

The birches gave way to tall oaks, and while they still weren't following anything like a path, the undergrowth didn't seem quite as thick and impenetrable. There was even enough space for Lancelot to walk beside him, rather than follow Gwaine's lead. The other knight was staring in wonder at their surroundings when Gwaine glanced over at him, but he didn't seem afraid either, just a bit wary still.

There was nothing particularly menacing about the forest, after all, aside from the fact that trees kept popping up out of nowhere to cut off what had been perfectly accessible tracks just a moment ago. Lancelot seemed to come to the same conclusion, judging from the way he kept his hands away from the knives on his belt.

"First you agree to a beheading test with a stranger, and now you're stuck in a magical forest," he said, startling Gwaine out of his thoughts. Lancelot was still frowning when Gwaine glanced over, but he seemed to make a conscious effort to lighten the mood. He tipped a smile towards him when Gwaine caught his eye, although it looked strained. "Quite the dashing story to tell the ladies."

Gwaine rolled his eyes, deciding not to comment on the strange undertone in Lancelot's words. "I don't need stories of heroics to impress girls," he replied loftily, fixing his gaze on a random tree rather than on Lancelot. A twine of ivy had sneaked around the trunk, and fat drops of water were glistening on the dark green leaves, reminding him oddly of a friendly wink.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lancelot asked after a befuddled pause. To anyone else, he might just have sounded curious, but Gwaine heard the slight irritation beyond the reaches of his control. He hadn't really meant anything by it, but apparently Lancelot was reading more into his words.

"Wasn't that what you were doing before you joined us in battle?" he inquired, careful to keep his tone light, like they were just making idle conversation on their way back to camp. "You know—saving the world to heroically lay it at Guinevere's feet, and all that?"

"Sounds more like you've been doing that," Lancelot answered, with a sweeping, irritated gesture, "what with _heroically_ facing the Green Knight's challenge in Arthur's stead."

And yes, there was definitely a snappish quality to his voice now, although he was still attempting to sound civil. Gwaine found himself smiling, turning his head away to hide his expression. Lancelot was a decent enough fellow to be around, but he just didn't understand the concept of teasing.

"I never said I was out to save anyone," Gwaine said, hefting the rabbits up a little higher on his shoulder. "I was just looking for a bit of fun. Besides, I don't need anyone but myself to hand the world to, and what would be the sense in that? I'd much rather have some ale."

That seemed to take the wind out of Lancelot's sails; he remained silent for a long moment, and Gwaine used the moment of quietude to survey their surroundings. The forest seemed to be thinning ahead, or maybe the sun had broken through the clouds—it was difficult to tell, with the thick canopy of leaves overhead and the diffuse light. He thought he could hear the gurgling trickle of water from a distance, his mouth going dry at the thought; the memory of ale had been enough to remind him that he was rather thirsty.

"That's why you're not a good knight," Lancelot stated eventually, startling Gwaine out of his reverie about drinks. His head swiveled around so fast that something in his neck gave an ominous crack, but Lancelot wasn't even looking at him. "You're reckless and impatient and only after your own enjoyment," he said, almost sadly. "You can't see the greater good behind things."

Gwaine frowned, taken aback by the bluntness of Lancelot's words—he was usually rather quiet, at least around him, and it seemed as though Gwaine had been right in assuming that Lancelot didn't like him much. Despite himself, irritation bubbled up in him, although Lancelot hadn't sounded particularly belligerent, or like he was just trying to get a rise out of him.

"Arthur seemed to think I had the makings of a knight, you know, when he _knighted me_ ," Gwaine replied at last, just a bit stung, because while he'd been doubtful about the whole thing at first, he was doing his best, and had even begun to feel like he was getting the hang of it. At least until now.

Lancelot snorted, the sound laden with grim amusement. "And his approval actually matters to you?"

"You're one to talk," Gwaine snapped back, his voice echoing slightly among the trees. His earlier relaxation was all but chased from his mind, and he didn't care that it was a low blow when he added, "Judging from how cozy you've been with Gwen lately, I'd guess that what Arthur thinks doesn't matter to you either."

For a moment, Lancelot just stared at him in slight shock, like he needed some time to process the words. Gwaine squared his shoulders and stared right back, ignoring the dismaying thought that insults to his honor had been enough to prod him into anger. He hadn't really known that he even _had_ a honor to insult, but apparently, like with so many other things about knighthood, it had crept up on him.

"You think I— _charmed_ Guinevere into leaving Arthur's side?" Lancelot asked at last, torn between shock and anger. "I would never insult the prince like that—"

Gwaine laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound that startled a few birds into flight, the flapping of their wings loud in the silence. "Oh please, like you're so perfectly loyal to him. It must have rankled you to see them together all the time."

Instead of answering, Lancelot just stopped walking, and closed his eyes as though to regain control of his anger. Gwaine felt his own irritation wilt at the sight—he should have known better than to prod his fellow knight, because if there was someone who would always back down from a fight rather than start one, it was Lancelot. Apparently the subject of Gwen and Arthur had been enough to goad him into snapping at Gwaine, but nothing more.

He turned away from Lancelot, and was surprised to find how close they'd come to the glade again without noticing. Ahead of him, the treeline opened up to their clearing, and even through the leaves, Gwaine could see a thin trail of smoke from their fire. He stepped around a small beech to get a better view—Arthur was still sitting next to Merlin beneath the small copse of trees, and Leon was checking on the horses a few paces away.

"It was his decision to let her go," Lancelot said from behind him; Gwaine glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and saw that Lancelot had stepped forward to look at the clearing as well. His brow was furrowed, and his gaze seemed to rest on Arthur and Merlin, although it was hard to tell with the leaves obscuring their view.

"And you just happened to be there," Gwaine replied, conversationally. "I wonder why that was."

He felt gratified when Lancelot's head jerked up like he'd been struck—Gwaine didn't really know why he still kept needling him, now that Lancelot wasn't insulting him anymore, but it was just too easy if one knew which buttons to push. He kept his eyes fixed on Leon, who was rubbing residual wetness out of his horse's fur with a balled-up scrap of cloth.

"I never would have taken her from Arthur," Lancelot said, with the firmness of one who was telling the truth. Gwaine sighed inwardly, just a little disappointed, well aware that any chance of a proper argument had just been lost—he couldn't taunt Lancelot anymore when he used that tone. "I only ever wanted to see her happy."

A thought about honorable, sentimental saps crossed his mind, but Gwaine took care not to voice it. He turned back to the glade instead, where Arthur was leaning forward to put another thick branch into the fire. A shower of sparks went up with a crackle.

He became aware that Lancelot was glancing at him from the corner of his eye, probably waiting for a reply, and Gwaine sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Sure, he'd noticed the whole weird back-and-forth thing between the three of them, but he'd never wanted to actually comment on it, although it had been fun to try and goad Lancelot into a fight.

Still, he searched his mind for something deep and philosophical, and when he found nothing, simply said, "Well, now Arthur is unhappy."

Leon turned away from them and bent over, gently coaxing his horse into lifting its foreleg so he could check on the hoof. Weak sunlight trickled into the glade, making the wet grass glitter enticingly—apparently the horse thought so too, because it lowered its head and begun to graze. Even through the leaves, Gwaine could see that the sky didn't look like it would bring more rain today.

"Gwen is not the one who can redeem that," Lancelot replied after a pause, somewhat cryptically—or not so cryptically, Gwaine amended when he followed the other knight's gaze. It had come to rest on Merlin, and Gwaine found himself smiling despite himself; so he wasn't the only one who had noticed something, after all.

The thought didn't seem to stir up the same reaction in Lancelot, though. Gwaine was simply tempted to roll his eyes whenever he caught himself thinking about Merlin and Arthur, and sometimes he thought of how much fun it would be to lock them in a small room together.

But Lancelot didn't look as fondly amused as Gwaine felt. A troubled frown was creasing his brow, and his voice was tired when he said, "I wish Arthur could see what's right in front of him."

The comment about saps bubbled up in Gwaine's throat once more, dangerously close to being voiced out loud, but he swallowed it back down. Looking at Arthur again, he cocked his head and made a show of pretending to think, folding his arms across his chest. The rabbits dangled precariously, but remained slung over his shoulder.

"Right now, that's Leon's backside," Gwaine answered at last, following Arthur's line of sight to the other side of the fire, where Leon was still prodding at his horse's foreleg. Lancelot choked a little, and Gwaine hurried to add, "It's a magnificent backside, don't get me wrong, but I don't think it's what he needs—"

Lancelot sighed, long-suffering, and seemed to ask himself why he had even expected a serious evaluation of the situation from him. He raked a hand through his hair, leaving the still-damp strands to stand on end. "I do not wish to see Merlin hurt even more."

That silenced Gwaine's amusement, if only for a moment. "You know, then?" he asked, turning back to face the other man instead of just looking at him from the corner of his eye. "What happened between them?"

Predictably, Lancelot's features closed off when he saw that the mirth had left Gwaine's expression. "I can't tell you," he said, stiffly, as though he feared that Gwaine would draw the secret out of him against his will.

Gwaine fought the urge to roll his eyes, and kept his voice level when he replied, "That's not what I asked. I'm just glad to hear that my plan worked."

Lancelot blinked, surprised, but caught on after a moment. The memory of a night spent in the tavern seemed to flicker through his mind—so he really had coaxed Merlin into talking by getting him drunk, like Gwaine had suggested.

It hadn't been the best advice he'd ever given, and while he normally respected the secrets that he knew Merlin concealed, Gwaine had long since reached the end of his endurance when Lancelot asked him what he thought he should do. He'd been tired of seeing Merlin slink around the castle like a ghost, stubborn misery in the slumped line of his posture whenever he caught sight of Arthur. True, he'd had no right to intervene, but Gwaine knew that the best way to lift some of the weight from Merlin's shoulders had been to get him to talk.

"Let's get these to the fire," Gwaine finally said, just to break the silence, and gestured at the rabbits when Lancelot gave him a confused look. "I'm starving."

He wasn't, not really, but Lancelot nodded anyway. He shook his head to dispel the last of whatever troublesome thoughts the conversation had stirred up, and followed willingly when Gwaine led the way into the clearing.

 

  


 

When he glanced at the other side of the clearing again, a few minutes after Lancelot and Gwaine had left, Arthur wasn't all that surprised to see that the path had disappeared again.

A pine tree was rising from the undergrowth in its stead, a myriad of needles glistening and dripping with water as though it had endured the downpour just as patiently as its companions. But Arthur _knew_ that it had appeared out of thin air when he hadn't been looking, and he gave it a cross glance before turning back to Merlin.

Merlin, who was still and silent beside him—so still, in fact, that Arthur had already cupped a hand near his mouth several times, just to feel the wispy dampness of Merlin's breathing waft across his skin. His face was pale, though not as translucent as it had been when he'd fallen from his horse, and Arthur could only hope that the accumulating warmth of all those blankets would wake him up in time.

There'd been no telling what had toppled Merlin from his saddle in the first place, though Arthur's first thought had been of Mercian patrols. True, the innkeeper had said that no one ever ventured into the forest if they could help it, but in that moment when he'd turned back in reaction to Gwaine's shout and saw Merlin's crumpled form on the ground, Arthur had expected to have a band of brigands jump out of the trees. Still, Merlin hadn't been wounded by an arrow or spear, and for that, he was grateful.

The fire crackled merrily in front of him, giving off quite a lot of warmth, and Arthur rolled his shoulders in an attempt to arch the tension out of his muscles. He had been telling himself that they were safe in the clearing, at least for the moment, and that he'd better rest and restore his energy instead of jumping at the least sound. At any rate, Leon seemed less guarded, sitting on the other side of the fire and keeping his eyes on the flames.

Arthur sighed deeply, and forced himself to prop his elbows up on his knees to get his hands away from the knives on his belt. If he was completely honest, he found himself wishing that Merlin were awake. Not only because then he could stop worrying about the idiot, but also because he knew of no one else who might be able to shed some light on the whole magic issue—he still hadn't forgotten the disappearing paths, and the innkeeper's words kept circling through his mind as well.

He had said that nobody in their right mind would travel through the forest, and now Arthur understood why.

Even if they'd had a chance of finding their way back out of the thicket, in spite of the tracks having a magical mind of their own, Arthur knew that none of them would take it. Percival, Elyan and the squires were probably just as lost, if not more hopelessly so; they might even have gotten enchanted by whoever they'd met in Cogeltone's tavern. Arthur was not going to leave them here, and the knowledge that the others agreed with him on that was reassuring. Still, it would be even more reassuring if Merlin were awake.

Arthur frowned, staring into the flames but not really seeing their bright dance. Maybe the strange atmosphere was just taking its toll on him, but that thought rankled somehow, sent a prickle of irritation through him with its sheer unfamiliarity. Since when did the crown prince of Camelot rely on his hapless manservant in magical matters, after all? Arthur shook his head at himself, a sardonic grin briefly twisting his lips as he thought of what his father would say if he could see him right now.

But on the other hand, he'd encountered few magical mysteries in his life that could be handled with a sword. And there was also the nagging awareness that he couldn't think of a single instance when Merlin hadn't been there to help when it came to fending off evil sorcery. Sure, Arthur hadn't known that his manservant had _been_ of any help back then, but he still suspected that Merlin had taken care of far more magical threats for him than he was aware of.

Which was unfair in itself, Arthur thought, and deliberately unclenched his hands from the fists they'd balled into, forcing them to rest loosely on his knees instead. He still remembered the way Merlin had shouted at him in Maneshale, the frustrated, stricken look in his eyes backlit by the Beltane fires. So much had happened in the meantime, and although Merlin had offered, Arthur hadn't thought to just _ask_ if it had really been Merlin who had his hide all this time. And if what Merlin had told him was true, if he really had only ever used his magic to help him, then—

Arthur raked a hand through his hair, suddenly tired. He couldn't deal with this now, with Merlin lying unconscious just a foot away and Leon sneaking surreptitious concerned glances at them both. He was probably wondering why Arthur even cared, why he'd gone from basically ignoring Merlin to grudgingly giving up some ground to him again. Leon had a way of noticing things that went over most people's heads, and with the way Arthur had been acting ever since Merlin had told him of his magic, he wouldn't blame Leon if he thought Arthur was losing it.

Hell, _everyone_ had to think he was losing it—they didn't know what had happened, after all. They just knew that Arthur had been terrible to Merlin for no apparent reason, while Merlin doggedly hung on and refused to be dislodged from Arthur's life, no matter how vigorously Arthur had tried to shake him off.

If Arthur thought about it, he could even picture their reactions if they ever found out Merlin's secret. Gwaine would probably just clap Merlin on the back and invite him to the nearest tavern in reward for his courage, and he wouldn't give the magic a second thought. Percival and Elyan might need some time to wrap their minds around it, as would Leon, but in the end they'd accept it. None of _them_ would allow their prejudices to interfere with the friendship they felt for Merlin, and the loyalty that Merlin had earned from them.

He gave a humorless snort, but ignored Leon's questioning glance. There was a knot of tension in his chest, balled up like something was squeezing his lungs, but no matter how hard he swallowed against it, it refused to go away, because he _knew_ that the others would refuse to see Merlin as a threat, if they ever found out about his magic. They would listen to the same instinct that had first shaken Arthur out of his righteous anger by the lake, when Merlin had followed him and warmed his clothes for him and _looked out_ for him, as though he'd forgotten the day Arthur had told him to get out of his room and never come back. They wouldn't see him any differently, although they might be a bit mad that he'd been lying—but not for long, and they would accept his apology.

Arthur shook his head to dislodge those fruitless thoughts, feeling sick for some reason. He took a deep breath, and told himself that there was no use in thinking about what the others would do if they found out about Merlin's magic, because they _wouldn't_. None of them would ever know, except for him and Lancelot.

He turned back to Merlin, who seemed to be breathing more deeply now, his brow furrowed slightly like he was dreaming. On a whim, Arthur reached out to press the back of his hand to Merlin's forehead, a small weight lifting from his shoulders when he found it cool and dry.

But then Merlin twitched under his hand, and turned his face into the touch with a soft noise before Arthur could pull his fingers away. His eyelids fluttered, and when they parted, his eyes were golden.

Barely aware of the uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck, Arthur snatched his hand back like he'd been burned. For just a moment, Merlin's eyes met his, still unfocused with just barely having woken up, and Arthur knew that he should have been worried by how much effort it took him to wrench his gaze away.

Then he turned to face Leon over the flames, trying not to let the instinctive panic show on his face—the fire was still dancing merrily, and maybe Leon would think it was just light reflecting oddly in Merlin's eyes. But Merlin gave a quiet, choked-off groan, and when Arthur glanced at him, he was blinking slowly as though to focus his thoughts, his eyes still molten amber.

Leon just blinked at him for a moment, clearly confused by the tightness in Arthur's expression. But he seemed to get the hint anyway, because he stood after only a moment's hesitation, taking a few steps back. "I'll go and— get more firewood."

He turned and walked away without another word, and Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief as he watched him go. True, he trusted Leon with his life, and he'd always valued the older knight's ability to notice things that went past most people. But he still remembered the look Leon had given Merlin when he'd noticed the disappeared path, and what Arthur _didn't_ need right now was an unplanned reveal of Merlin's magic.

 _Unplanned?_ he wondered at himself when his thoughts caught up with him, but then Arthur resolutely pushed the matter to the back of his mind.

Merlin was breathing more heavily now, like it was a tedious effort just to stop himself from sliding back into unconsciousness. He pushed down the blankets as though he had just noticed the oppressive heat they had built up, and just lay there for a while, golden gaze unfocused and vaguely turned to the trees above him.

"Merlin?" Arthur said, trying to sound commanding, but wasn't all that surprised when the word came out hushed and tentative. He didn't want to break Merlin's concentration if he needed all of it to even stay awake.

"Still here," Merlin replied, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. His gaze flickered down to catch Arthur's, and Arthur felt his breath hitch when he met Merlin's eyes, bright and molten. "'m fine. Just. Give me a moment."

Throat uncomfortably tight, Arthur nodded, and watched as Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. His left hand curled into the blankets at his hip—it looked desperate somehow, like he was so dizzy that he needed something to focus on. Arthur stared at the white-knuckled clench of Merlin's fist for a while, fighting the urge to reach out and pry Merlin's fingers apart and let them latch onto his own, to give him something more solid to hold on to.

"You fell off your horse," he declared instead, because he didn't know what else to say, helpless as he was in the face of the tight, drawn look on Merlin's face. Accusing Merlin of stalling their search for Percival, Elyan and the squires seemed like the safest thing to do.

Merlin smiled thinly, but didn't open his eyes. "Sorry," he whispered, just a little louder than before, the word sliding out on a ragged breath. He raised a shaking hand to his brow, like he'd just noticed that he had a truly magnificent headache. "It just— took me completely off-guard, that's all. Stop worrying."

"I'm not worried," Arthur said, absently, because he was too busy leaning forward to see whether a light sheen of sweat had begun to bead on Merlin's forehead. His hand twitched, but he resolutely stopped himself from reaching out again.

Then he saw that it wasn't sweat but _light_ , a diffuse, barely noticeable glow collecting on Merlin's skin, and Arthur looked up just in time to see a feeble sun break through the sheet of clouds overhead. It was like the rays of sunlight latched on to Merlin, pooling in the hollow of his throat and under the sooty sweep of his eyelashes.

Arthur stared, mouth gone dry, and wondered why he couldn't quite gain enough breath to order Merlin to tell the sun to stop that. Merlin sucked in a slow, deep inhale, and when he opened his eyes again, they were blue.

They stared at each other for a while as the sunlight cast weak shadows across the glade. It wasn't quiet anymore—birds were chirping in the distance, and the trees rustled around the clearing, as though the entire forest was relieved that the rain had stopped. Dimly, Arthur heard Leon crashing around in the undergrowth in search of more or less dry wood.

"What happened?" Arthur asked at last, and barely managed to bite back the _are you alright?_. Merlin seemed more focused now, but the clench of his fist had loosened only a little, and he still looked shaky and weak.

"It just— knocked into me," Merlin replied, his voice gone soft with hesitance; for the first time, he looked around, blinking slowly at their surroundings like he was still struggling to stay awake. "If I'd seen it coming, maybe I wouldn't have been so overwhelmed, but—"

He fell silent for a moment, shivering slightly, a memory flitting across his features. Arthur waited, gritting his teeth against the words that wanted to tumble out, but then their gazes met again, and Merlin's eyes widened in alarm.

"Arthur, it's alright," he said hurriedly, in reaction to whatever he'd seen in his face, and Arthur tried to smooth his expression into one of polite interest. Which didn't work, apparently, because Merlin dislodged his hand from the blanket—it flopped weakly in Arthur's general direction when Merlin couldn't summon the strength to reach for him. "I'm _fine_ , really. It's just the Green Knight's magic."

There was a pause, and Arthur had already opened his mouth to snap back that he _was not worried_ when the words fully registered with him. He took a moment to clear his throat before speaking. "The Green Knight's magic?" he repeated slowly, thinking that Merlin might just have gotten confused for a moment—it wouldn't be surprising, with the state he was in. "I thought it was the forest that's magical?"

"The Green Knight _is_ the forest," Merlin stated assuredly, like that explained everything. Then he seemed to notice that it didn't, or at least not to Arthur, because he furrowed his brow in deep thought, his features suddenly tight and drawn.

"I didn't tell you last night," he said, almost in a whisper, his eyes darkening with regret as he stared at Arthur, his hand twitching again in a weak attempt to reach for him. "I'm sorry, I swear I was _meaning_ to tell you, but then we talked about dragons and I just—"

"It's alright," Arthur interrupted, now even more confused than before. Sure, he wasn't exactly thrilled that there seemed to be yet another thing he didn't know, but he also understood that the remorse on Merlin's face was genuine. And he didn't have the heart to snap at his manservant in his half-delirious state anyway.

A state that Merlin was still trying to drag himself out of, if the way he was rubbing his forehead was anything to go by. "I'll tell you now, though," he replied, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple as if to stave off a growing headache, and his voice had begun to slur slightly. "Because then there won't be more secrets. Do you remember what the innkeeper said about the forest?"

Arthur paused in the act of opening his mouth to tell Merlin that they should better continue this conversation later. Merlin was staring at him again, his gaze feverish and insistent, like he wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth right now, before he slipped back into unconsciousness. Arthur noticed the slight tremble of his hands, the way his eyes kept darting to the side like it was difficult to focus, and decided to indulge him.

"He said it was haunted," he replied at last, not sure what he was getting at, but Merlin nodded, swallowing convulsively as he took a deep breath to steady himself again.

"There was that fight, remember?" Merlin asked, the words rushing out on an exhale. He wiped a trembling hand across his forehead, although there was still no sweat gathering there. "Against the immortal army?"

Not daring to speak and break Merlin's concentration, Arthur nodded, and Merlin sighed in relief. It probably would have taken too much energy to retell that part of the whole thing again. "The dragon told me that the Green Knight was the only one left to defend the forest in the end," Merlin explained, "and the forest thanked him by granting him a different kind of immortality. He kind of— merged with the magic of the land, or something."

At a loss for anything better to do, Arthur nodded again, although he didn't feel like that particular bit of information had gotten through to him yet. It was one thing to have the man come to Camelot and challenge the court, and watch him let his head get cut off later—but it was another thing entirely to learn that he was essentially a forest spirit.

But Merlin was talking again—or babbling, more like, and Arthur shoved the thought away to examine it more closely later. "There's a song about it," Merlin mumbled, his gaze straying over Arthur's shoulder and veering off into the woods. "A song about the animals that took him away into the forest to bury him. When I was a kid I thought it was kind of boring. Do you know it?"

"I think so," Arthur replied vaguely, because Merlin was struggling to focus his gaze on him again, his expression so hopeful that Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him that _songs_ were the last things on his mind right now.

"Yeah," Merlin said, like that settled everything, and the relief on his features was so palpable that something twisted in Arthur's chest. He watched helplessly as Merlin slumped back a little, his hand pawing absently at what must be a colossal headache in his temple. "And now I know why I always felt so jittery around him—he's magic. This whole forest is practically coated in it."

 _That_ chased the helpless feeling from Arthur's mind right away. "Is it hurting you?" he demanded, leaning forward in an attempt to catch Merlin's gaze. Merlin's head lolled to the side, and Arthur swallowed down the sick feeling that rose in him, inordinately grateful when he felt it morph into anger. "I'll kill the bastard—"

"No, no," Merlin interrupted, and frowned, like struggling not to slur was using up all of his strength. "It's just— curious, I think. I'm getting used to it."

Arthur sat back down, barely aware that he'd risen to his knees before. He didn't understand how _magic_ could be curious, or how mere curiosity could affect Merlin like this, but he held his tongue for now. Merlin's eyelids were drooping again, and he looked relieved that he'd managed to tell Arthur what he'd wanted him to know.

"Great," Arthur muttered, directing his glare to the other side of the clearing instead of at Merlin, because the whole thing wasn't his fault after all. "You know, that's just great. As if it wasn't enough that the others were lured here with magic, now it's making you sick too—"

Merlin gave him a slow blink, a sheen of amber flickering through his eyes, and Arthur's heart sank a little when the blue melted back into burnished gold a moment later. "You once said not all magic was bad."

It took Arthur a moment to place the words and the vague mental images they conjured, but when he remembered the day he had said that, the sheer speed with which he pushed the memory away was born of instinct rather than conscious thought. He gritted his teeth against the flare of betrayed anger that surged through him, telling himself that Merlin wasn't in his right mind, that he didn't really know what he'd just said. Still, Arthur couldn't help but wonder if Merlin had lied on that day as well.

"Maybe I was wrong," he bit out, his voice seeming loud in the silence—deep down, he knew he didn't mean it, not entirely, but he was still helpless to stop the words from tumbling out.

Whatever state he was in, it seemed to dull Merlin's perception, because he didn't look hurt or even offended. He just gazed back at Arthur, his eyes looking tired and strangely ancient in the sunlight. Arthur found himself unable to break his gaze or even hold on to the flare of comfortingly familiar ire—it fizzled out slowly, doused by the otherworldly gleam in Merlin's eyes.

"That's hypocritical," Merlin said at last, when the silence had stretched for far too long. He'd seemed on the verge of sleep just a moment ago, but now he was struggling to rouse himself back into wakefulness. "You can't approve of magic when it helps you, and then hate it when it doesn't."

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but Merlin beat him to it. He tried to roll over and prop himself up into a sitting position, as though he couldn't argue properly while lying down, and Arthur had lurched forward before he could second-guess his actions. Merlin would just crash back down and probably hit his head on a hidden stone when he so much as sat up.

Putting a hand on Merlin's chest, Arthur resolutely pushed him back down, not listening to the mumbled protests as they cut off with a choked exhale. Merlin stilled, suddenly, and then attempted to curl into the touch as though to cradle it close. He gasped like he'd been stabbed, a wounded, animal noise that made Arthur snatch back his fingers in alarm.

But Merlin grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand back down, letting out a long, shaky sigh when Arthur's palm covered his sternum again. Arthur looked up just in time to see his eyes slip shut, his expression slackening into utter peacefulness, as though all he needed to finally relax was the grounding touch of Arthur's hand.

"Okay," Arthur said, his voice wobbling just a bit with the way his heart seemed to have jumped into his throat. Merlin squeezed his hand in response, pressing Arthur's fingers more firmly to his chest like he wanted to fuse them to himself. "Let's just— not do this now. I'll argue with you later."

A feeble smile briefly lifted the corners of Merlin's mouth, and he mumbled something that might have been "prat". Arthur let it go for now, though, because he could feel Merlin's breath slowing beneath his hand, the single point of contact enough to help him slide into the kind of deep sleep that Merlin needed to get rid of that headache.

They stayed just like that as the fire burned down to simmering hot charcoal and the shadows lengthened around them. Arthur stared at the stillness of Merlin's features, noticing that they looked healthier than before, asleep rather than passed out. He could feel Merlin's warmth soak his fingers, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, and underneath it all was his pulse, his heart beating steady and strong under Arthur's palm.

He thought about moving his hand, now that Merlin had fallen asleep, but Merlin was still clutching at it, and Arthur hadn't forgotten the slack look of peace that had crossed his features when Arthur had first touched him. And something in Arthur's chest clenched uncomfortably at the prospect of not feeling the thud-thud-thud of Merlin's heartbeat anymore, and so he kept his hand where it was.

Even when Leon returned, Arthur didn't move, and the older knight's gaze zeroed in on his hand before he turned away again with a mumbled apology. In any other situation, Arthur might have grinned at the way Leon busied himself with piling more wood on the fire before striding over to check on the horses, as though he wanted to give them some privacy.

As it was, he just took a moment to appreciate his thoughtfulness, grateful that he didn't have to let go just yet; Leon didn't even seem to have noticed the faint light that collected on Merlin's skin. Merlin slept on, the sunlight caressing his relaxed features with a nearly unnoticeable glow. Somehow, Arthur's eyes kept returning to Merlin's face, to the sweep of his lashes and the shadows that collected under his cheekbones, the ripe, rosy bow of his lips, parted slightly in sleep.

With Leon's back turned to them, Arthur saw no reason to fight it, and so he let his gaze stray back to Merlin's features as often as it wanted to, just barely wondering at the strange, dizzying sensation that rose in his chest.

 

  


 

It was easier the next morning, but only because he'd had some time to brace himself and restore his sapped energy. Still, it took Merlin far longer than usual to wake up, will down the insistent prickle beneath his skin, and finally crawl out of his bedroll.

Everyone kept sneaking him concerned glances over breakfast, and Merlin did his best to pretend that nothing was wrong while struggling to figure out what was nagging at the back of his mind. Finally, he realized that he'd slept away yesterday's afternoon as well as the night, and that they must have relocated their camp at some point, because the present glade was decidedly larger than the one that Merlin remembered. He said as much to Gwaine, whose eyes went dark and troubled when their gazes met, and Merlin cursed inwardly, thinking that his pasted-on expression probably looked dazed rather than casually interested.

To his credit, Gwaine kept his tone light when he explained that they'd indeed moved to a larger clearing at nightfall. He told Merlin that they hadn't been able to rouse him, and just heaved him up on his horse's back to get him there. Merlin made a feeble joke about his general lack of sleep catching up with him, but didn't think it was all that convincing. Gwaine was his friend, after all, and even if he couldn't see the golden thrum beneath his skin, he had to notice the way Merlin kept swerving and tripping as he walked, and how easily he got tired while struggling to focus his eyes.

Still, it was easier than it had been the day before, and Merlin clung to that thought as the morning wore on. His memory was muddled and blurry, but he didn't have to see the way Arthur's gaze kept drilling into his back to realize that the prince had been by his side when he'd woken up. He couldn't remember his fall from the horse, and his conversation with Arthur came back to him in jumbled bits and pieces—but he did remember that Arthur's hand had guided him into sleep.

The others were clearly worried about him, but to Merlin's relief, he wasn't the only trouble on their minds. While he cleared away their dishes from breakfast, snatches of overheard conversations told him that the paths had disappeared overnight once more, and that no new tracks had appeared so far. With the unmistakeable proof of the forest's magical properties, no one seemed to want to just cut a path through the undergrowth, and they were left in a bit of a limbo.

It was only when he noticed the midday sunlight pouring into the clearing that Merlin realized how long it had taken him to pack their mugs and plates back up. Hazily, he wondered if Lancelot might have offered to help him—he thought he remembered his voice, tight with concern, but Merlin had been so busy listening to Arthur and Leon's hushed conversation that he hadn't replied.

At any rate, the task was done now, and nobody approached him with other chores that needed to be done. And so Merlin felt free to just slump down into the grass where he stood, letting himself fall back until he was leaning against the rough bark of an oak.

He dozed like that for a while, his fingers buried in long blades of grass and the sun warming him. The tree vibrated with energy at his back, an ancient, resonating hum that emptied Merlin's head of all conscious thought. It was working hard to make the best of the sunlight, he realized—he could feel the roots suck water from the earth, greedily reaching into the deepest crevasses to get at the best soil.

The oak's bark was dry, but just beneath the surface, the water thickened into rich, thick sap that was patiently pumped upwards to nourish every little twig. The leaves strained towards the sunlight, using the slight breeze to turn this way and that and soak up as much warmth as they could. They whispered to Merlin in rustling voices, telling him that theirs was an ideal spot for getting sunlight all day long, picked by lord of the forest himself. They were grateful, and rewarded him with the best service they could give, in gentle shades that shielded him from the sun whenever he chose to pass through their clearing, and the deepest, darkest reds and oranges when autumn came.

At some point, it occurred to Merlin that there was something wrong with that train of thought, but it took him a few minutes to rouse himself back to wakefulness. Finally, almost as an afterthought, he realized that he shouldn't be _feeling_ any of what the tree was doing under him, let alone hearing words in the rustling of the leaves.

He pushed himself away from the sun-warmed bark with some difficulty, thinking that he heard the leaves rustle with a sigh of disappointment. His shirt rustled too, and when Merlin looked down, he saw that it was stiff with caked-on mud.

Finding a bush to hide behind cleared his mind, and he stripped off his dirty shirt and trousers and slipped into his only clean change of clothes. His skin felt stiff and too tight, like it had been close to becoming bark too, and Merlin was somewhat grateful when that mental image still made him shudder, rather than shrug in indifference.

The fog in his head was parting just enough to allow a trickle of conscious thought, and he stopped to collect the muddy shirt Arthur had worn yesterday on his way to the other side of the clearing. Keeping his mind on the task ahead, Merlin didn't even stop to look at Lancelot when he saw him approach from the corner of his eye, a concerned expression on his tanned features. He just mumbled that he was going to wash the shirts, and stumbled away into the forest.

It wasn't quite a path, just a convenient gap between the trees, but Merlin squeezed through it anyway, barely noticing when thorns and twigs snagged on his trousers as if to hold him back. Light was spilling through the canopy of leaves above, forcing him to squint against the brilliance, and he let his feet guide him. The sound of running water had haunted his sleep and directed his steps now, growing louder the further he advanced through the thicket.

Out of sight and earshot of their camp, falling to his knees at the sandy bank of a small stream, Merlin let go.

There was no running away, not even into unconsciousness, because there was nothing to run _from_ , no fanged beast hot on his heels with its breath panting into Merlin's neck. The magic was everywhere, engulfing him in a diffuse, glowing warmth that made it hard to breathe. It rose out of the grass with the morning mists and dripped from the trees in glistening dew, it coated the very air and hummed low and insisted in the earth. If there was a way of escaping, Merlin hadn't found it yet.

Not that he thought he _should_ , at that. What he had told Arthur was true, after all—it wasn't evil, just curious, as though it had been ages since the last time a sorcerer had passed through these parts. It pushed and pulled at Merlin with bursts of dizziness that engulfed him without warning, it crept beneath his skin and plucked his magic like a harpist running expert fingers over the strings.

Fleetingly, Merlin wondered if Morgana had been this affected as well, and thought that she probably hadn't, since she'd come to bind the Green Knight's will and subject him to her magic. He slowly blinked his eyes open again, and knew from the sharpness of his vision and the white-silver edges that they were golden. But there was no one here to see, and so he just took a deep breath to refocus his scattered thoughts, and plunged the soiled shirts into the stream.

The water was icy on his skin, and it numbed his hands as he rubbed clumsily at the dried mud, watching little specks of brown being carried away by the current. His head felt stuffy and too hot, whether from the sun or from the magic, he didn't know, but it made it hard to remember the routine movements of scrubbing stains out of clothes. The stream was so clear that he could see the stones at the bottom, dark green algae floating lazily as though in a breeze.

On impulse, Merlin leaned forward, steadying himself with a hand in the little river. There was mud in his hair too, after all, and it was as good a time as any to get it out. A thousand icy needles seemed to pierce his scalp and face as he quickly dunked his head in, but it was wonderfully refreshing, like the first breath of fresh air after an evening spent in a stuffy hall.

He rubbed his free hand through his hair before pulling back, wiping his wet face on his sleeve as trickles of water sneaked beneath the neckline of his shirt. The cold pierced the curtain of mist that had settled in his mind, pinpricks of cutting brightness in a hazy darkness, and he just sat back on his heels for a moment, welcoming the feeling.

The stains came out of his shirt easily enough, but Merlin hadn't counted on how numb his hands had become. His fingers were stiff with cold, and before long, the wet fabric slipped from his grasp, tugged away by the quickly flowing water that had cleared his head. Merlin steadied himself with a hand on the slippery rocks, and just watched dispassionately as the shirt floated downstream, occasionally snagging on wet rocks.

He went back to washing Arthur's tunic, musing distantly that he'd better not get this set of clothes dirty then. Which was kind of too late to think about, since his trousers were already wet at the knees, slowly soaking up the remains of yesterday's downpour from the ground. But if Merlin got up and pulled his hands out of the cold water, the dizziness would swamp him again, and so he let his shirt get carried away by the river.

A branch snapped behind him, causing a flock of birds to take flight with indignant caws. The undergrowth rustled ominously, and Merlin leaned forward to watch the birds through the trees, little specks of darkness against the blue sky. From this distance, he couldn't tell if they were ravens—but if they were, he felt somewhat smug that they'd been interrupted in spying on him.

Turning back to the red shirt in the water, Merlin didn't notice Leon until he sat down beside him, slowly, as though to avoid spooking him. He needn't have worried, though—Merlin didn't have the energy to do much more than turn his head to look at him in vague surprise. As tall as Leon was, he should have made an unholy racket plowing his way through the thicket, but Merlin hadn't heard his approach.

Belatedly, Merlin noticed that Leon was holding something, and dropped his gaze, astonished to find it resting on his soggy shirt. The knight had probably come looking for him a little further down the river, seen the shirt, and just followed the stream to find him.

"Thanks," Merlin said at last, when it occurred to him that he should probably speak, his voice hoarse with disuse. It took him a few seconds to focus his gaze on Leon's face, but he didn't shrink back from Merlin, which probably meant that his eyes were blue again.

Leon just nodded, but although his gaze rested on Merlin for a long moment, he didn't comment on his wet hair or the vacant, tired expression that felt permanently etched into his features. Then he turned away to spread Merlin's wet shirt out on a nearby rock, conveniently placed in the sunlight so it could begin to dry.

Merlin turned back to the river when Leon didn't speak, content to just sit there in silence and rub the last streaks of mud from Arthur's shirt. The normally bright red fabric looked darker in the water, a bit like blood. Merlin cringed, but remembering all the times he'd washed blood out of Arthur's clothes would do him no good right now, so he pushed the thought away.

He lifted the shirt from the water and wrung it out, his chilled hands protesting with little stings of pain. Leon was silent next to him when Merlin spread the fabric out on a flat rock, and he felt inordinately grateful when the knight didn't offer his help. Merlin was just a bit dazed, not incapable of getting the most basic of chores done.

Neither of them said anything for a while, and Merlin surreptitiously sneaked his hand back into the water, trailing his fingers through the stream. The coldness helped him keep focused, which he knew he had to be, since he was sure Leon hadn't followed him out here just to stare at the river as the day wore on.

Finally, Leon took a deep breath, keeping his gaze on the water, and said, "Sometimes I dream of when I drank from the Cup of Life."

For a long moment, Merlin just stared at him in confusion, unable to place the words—but he did remember the Cup of Life, and the memory of Leon's return to Camelot, after they'd all thought him dead, rushed back into his mind.

Leon turned to look at him, a strange uncertainty in his eyes in spite of the determined set of his jaw, like he'd never talked about this with anyone, and found himself fumbling for words now. Merlin waited for him to find them, and tried to hold on to the memory of Leon's return, rather than the remembered feeling of what it had been like to think him dead. Even after years in Camelot, Merlin hadn't known him that well, but well enough to count him among his friends.

"I was dying," Leon continued slowly, breaking Merlin's gaze to stare down at the running water again, "and I knew I was, but I didn't really care—I just felt like I was floating away. I didn't even realize the druids had brought me to their cave at first."

Merlin nodded, although Leon wasn't even looking at him anymore. He took a deep breath and carried on, the words coming easier now, like the start had been the hardest thing. "It was just water, what they gave me, but at the same time it was so much more. It— restored me."

"And you came back," Merlin replied, smiling despite himself. It had felt like a heavy weight had lifted from their shoulders, seeing Leon healthy and whole again after he'd struggled to come to terms with the thought of him dying alone and far away from home.

"No, you don't understand," Leon insisted, quietly now, his face troubled, like it was important to him that Merlin listened closely and heard what he wasn't saying out loud. "It healed me, yes, but it also _restored_ me. I had been so far gone already that I didn't think anything could bring me back, but the Cup did."

Frowning, Merlin nodded again, not quite sure what Leon was getting at—the words made sense, but judging from his troubled expression, sense was not what he wanted Merlin to see.

"It was like swallowing fire, except it didn't hurt," Leon continued, frowning in an effort to put words to what he'd only thought about before. "It just warmed me, like they'd given me pure sunlight to drink. And suddenly I _did_ care whether I lived or not, and I fought death with all my strength even as the Cup healed me."

The magic must have reached some reserves of energy deep inside Leon's fading mind, drawing them out of their hiding places to feed the fading flame of life. Merlin swallowed, the air suddenly thick in his lungs, and sent a quick thought of thanks to wherever the druids might have ended up by now.

If they hadn't been there, if they had just left Leon to die—no one would have blamed them, as the embroidered golden dragon on his cloak clearly identified Leon as a knight of Camelot. Even the druids had to be aware of Uther's stance on magic, but they had helped Leon anyway, well aware that he would return to Camelot to relate the tale of his magical rescue to his king.

"I've thought about it a lot," Leon stated, with an air of finality that jolted Merlin out of the brief detour his thoughts had taken. "Sometimes I dream of it. And I—"

He met Merlin's gaze squarely, in a way that made him wonder distantly whether his eyes really had changed back to their usual blue before. But then Leon took a deep breath, steeling himself, and said, "I've come to the conclusion that something that didn't just heal me but restored my will to live can't be inherently evil."

"Oh," Merlin breathed, rather blankly, because— well, even in a less hazy state, he would have no idea whatsoever how to react to that. He stared at Leon, waiting for him to say something else, or take back his previous statement. The man was the oldest among the knights of Camelot, he'd served under Uther for longer than even Arthur had, and he'd basically just declared that he did not hate magic after all.

Leon sighed, like he'd expected this kind of reaction, but to Merlin's surprise, there was a hesitant smile tugging at his mouth. He looked fond, and even faintly amused, and there was just a hint of exasperation in his voice when he said, "Merlin, I'm trying to tell you that I— I _know_."

That knocked the breath from his lungs as though he'd taken a plunge into the icy stream—if he'd felt oddly out of his depth before, it had nothing on the shock of panic that went through him. He wanted to shrug and laugh, to tell Leon that he had no idea what he was talking about, or even to just get up and stagger back to their camp, forget that this conversation had ever happened. But Leon's earnest gaze rooted him to the spot, even as slight confusion entered the knight's eyes.

"You're scared," he said, softly, almost to himself; he made a strange, aborted movement, like he wanted to reach out and place a hand on Merlin's shoulder, but stopped himself for fear of startling him even more. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean— I'm not going to _do_ anything, I just wanted to tell you that I know you're— a warlock."

Strangely enough, it was that that sent some much-needed air rushing back into Merlin's chest in a great gulp of breath. _Warlock_ , not _sorcerer_ , although the distinction was barely a faraway memory of when he'd first come to Camelot anymore. At first Merlin had thought that sorcerer sounded more sinister, but habit wore away at him until the lines between the words blurred enough for him not to care anymore which one was used.

"How?" Merlin croaked at last, forcing the word out despite the residual tightness in his chest. Leon was watching him with obvious concern and no small amount of regret, like he was berating himself for having brought up the topic when Merlin was clearly in no state to discuss it.

He rolled his eyes at that, though, and gave him a little smile. "I have eyes," he said simply, "and in hindsight, a few things just didn't add up without magic thrown in."

Rationally, he knew that Leon just wanted to reassure him, but the words still sent a thrill of fear down Merlin's back. He had thought he'd done his best to be stealthy and subtle, but what if anyone else had come to the same conclusion that Leon had been able to reach so easily? His throat went dry as parchment, because the others might not be as easy-going about the whole thing as Leon was. And what if they revealed his magic to all and sundry, just now when he felt like Arthur and him had made some progress?

"Merlin, it's alright," Leon said, his soothing voice piercing the increasing desperation of Merlin's thoughts. He reached out a hand in a placating gesture, and smiled again, tentatively. "I'm not going to— rat you out, or anything. I just thought you should know."

"And you're okay with it," Merlin replied numbly, still not quite understanding that. He noticed belatedly that his heart was hammering out a frantic rhythm in his chest, pounding against his ribcage as though it wanted to get out. If he'd had his bearings about him, he would have jumped up and made a run for it a few minutes ago, but as it was, he was somewhat glad he hadn't.

Leon nodded, although the smile faded until he looked thoughtful again. He cleared his throat, a trifle uncomfortably, and sounded cautious when he asked, "And Arthur is not?"

"How—," Merlin began, for the second time, unable to muster up anything that went beyond dull astonishment. After being told that Leon knew about his magic, it wasn't even that surprising anymore to learn that he knew of his fallout with Arthur, too.

"I have eyes," Leon repeated simply, although he shifted a little under Merlin's incredulous stare. "It was just the only thing I could think of that could drive such a wedge between you two."

In the silence that followed, it probably occurred to Leon that he might have overstepped his boundaries, because he fell silent and looked back at the river, giving Merlin a much-needed moment to compose his expression. A heated knot was forming in his throat, but he couldn't summon the energy to swallow it down. He'd been stupid to assume that this thing between him and Arthur had just gone over everyone's heads—Lancelot knew, and Merlin was well aware that Gwaine had noticed something as well. It was only logical that Leon, who was always perceptive in ways that others were not, had seen it too.

He shrugged one shoulder and attempted a smile, though it felt stiff and unreal on his face. "It's a little better now," he said, in an effort to reassure both Leon and himself. "Sometimes I think he almost understands, and sometimes it's like talking to a brick wall."

Leon was quiet for another moment, fixing his gaze on a tree on the other side of the river. He looked pensive, and Merlin's heart sank despite himself, suddenly sure that whatever Leon would say next, it'd just undo all the careful work he had done at pushing everything but his hope to the back of his mind.

"A brick wall that didn't turn you in," Leon countered at last, slowly, like he was weighing each word before he said it. His eyes were gentle yet persuasive when he looked at Merlin again, and Merlin swallowed hard under that look, all his frantic little thoughts stuttering to a halt. "He's trying, and you're trying, and as far as I can tell you're both doing a good job."

Merlin let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and turned away to stare out at the rushing water as well. For the first time, he noticed how quiet the forest seemed around them, as though the trees silenced the rustling of their leaves so as not to disrupt the conversation. The hush was dizzying, and Merlin trailed his fingers through the icy water, grateful for the way the sting of coldness helped him focus. He was sure a million things were listening, animals hiding in the undergrowth and leaves of grass swaying closer in the light breeze. He could almost see their little ears perking up, noses twitching as they picked up the scent of uncertainty in the air.

"I can't rush him, though," Merlin answered, when the silence felt like it had been stretched too thin. He sounded forlorn even to his own ears, although he'd meant for the words to be decisive. They were true, after all, even if he could never quite accept them, no matter how often he tried.

"No one ever said that these things need to be rushed to work," Leon said gently, and Merlin suddenly got the feeling that they weren't quite talking about the same thing anymore. "Arthur's not quite ready now, but that doesn't mean he'll never be."

A long moment passed, in which Merlin just looked at Leon in silence, trying to decipher the heavy meaning in his gaze. His head felt stuffed full of something that slowed his thoughts to a near crawl, its weight too heavy on his shoulders. None of the vague snippets of emotion that floated up from the bottom of his mind felt like they should be said aloud, and so he didn't reply, just let Leon's words sink in.

Leon nodded to himself, like he'd said what he'd come here to say at last, and rose to his feet with a crunch of dried leaves under his feet. He looked out across the water, at the treeline on the other riverbank and the thick tufts of grass that grew between sun-warmed rocks. Merlin knew that Leon didn't have an ounce of magic in his body, and he might not be able to feel the power in the air like Merlin did, but he still seemed to notice the hum in the atmosphere, if only subconsciously.

Finally, Leon cleared his throat, and looked back down at Merlin. "The Green Knight told Arthur to be honest with himself," he said, hushed but not quite uncomfortable, as though he was determined to say what he thought Merlin should hear. "Give him the chance to be honest with you as well."

Swallowing hard against the sudden obstruction in his throat, Merlin nodded, inordinately relieved that Leon didn't seem to be expecting an answer. This time it was easy to summon the relevant memory—he hadn't forgotten the cryptic words that had kept the prince from facing the Green Knight's challenge, but so far, Merlin had never wondered whether they'd made sense to Arthur back then.

Leon seemed to have understood them, though, because he gave Merlin a tentative smile and held out his hand, offering it to pull him up. Merlin thought that he must look fairly out of it indeed, if Leon didn't even think he could stand up on his own, but still shook his head.

"You go ahead," he said, a bit absently, as his mind was still reeling; gesturing to the wet shirts spread out across the rocks, Merlin tried to smile reassuringly. "I'll be right back as soon as these are dry."

Which wouldn't take that much longer, if the considerably brighter red of Arthur's shirt was anything to go by. He suspected that the forest had noticed the wet clothes and was routing as much sunlight as possible down to the stream, since it wasn't all that warm down among the trees. But Leon nodded after only a moment's hesitation, probably realizing that Merlin wouldn't take too kindly to being _supervised_ —he was just a bit dizzy and tired, not about to faint, fall into the stream, and drown.

Merlin sat back on his heels, turning his face up into the sunlight as he listened to the sound of Leon crashing through the undergrowth on his way back to their clearing. A lone bird was singing in the distance, in tandem with the incessant gurgling of the stream, and Merlin briefly thought back to the flock of black birds that had been startled into flight earlier. Maybe they'd settled down in the trees' highest branches again, out of sight, to track his every movement with their beady black eyes and report back to the Green Knight about his whereabouts.

In retrospect, he couldn't tell how long he sat there, just letting the sunlight warm him and feeling the low, insistent thrum of magic through his bones. It seemed to shudder up from the very earth, seeping through his trousers and his skin, weighing his muscles down with golden energy as though to coax him into lying down. Merlin kept his eyes closed, not caring what color they were right now, since there was no one to see even if he had opened them. Not having to look at anything was peaceful somehow, a welcome relief from dewy grass and sun-coated trees that all seemed to want to tell him something.

His hair dried into messy tufts, stirred by the breeze, and eventually, Merlin realized that the rustling of the leaves overhead sounded quite a lot like waves on a shore, rhythmic and beguiling. He smiled absently, feeling his shoulders droop a little lower with how relaxed he felt, how utterly at peace in the warm darkness behind his closed lids. He'd never seen the sea, but he imagined it felt something like this, the push and pull of an ever-present tide gentling him into a state of semi-consciousness.

But that thought didn't seem quite right, and Merlin frowned, feeling like someone had grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him relentlessly back and forth. He _had_ heard the sound of waves crashing on a shore before, he was sure of it, although he couldn't quite recall where. An image floated up from the depth of his subconscious, a worn wooden table and two goblets, glinting innocently in the sunlight, and a feeling of impending defeat, of utter, paralyzing _fear_ at the determination in Arthur's eyes—

The memory hit him like one of Arthur's practice swords, the dulled edge dealing out a blow that Merlin felt all the way down to his toes. He gasped aloud, and wrenched his eyes open to let the light back in. Of course he'd seen the sea before, he'd been there with Arthur—Arthur, who was probably plotting some sort of route through the forest with the knights just a furlong away, and who might even be getting annoyed at Merlin's absence by now.

Merlin just concentrated on his breathing for a while, struggling to rouse his mind from the strange, dreaming state it had slipped into, but unearthing himself _hurt_. It twinged deep inside his chest, twisted a coil of regretful pain around his spine until he could almost taste it at the back of his throat. But he couldn't sit here and let himself float through the dizzying, gleaming energy that was wrought into every blade of grass beneath his knees. He had to go, he had to bring Arthur his shirt, and he had promised Leon he'd come back.

He clung to that thought, although it was kind of stupid to finally stagger to his feet just because of a shirt. It was easier once he'd gotten up, blood rushing in his ears with the sudden movement after such a long period of sitting still, but even that felt good, felt _real_. His hand, when he finally pulled it out of the water, was red and blotchy in places, but he could move his fingers, although they were so cold it sent stabs of pain through his joints.

Bending down to pick up the shirts made black spots dance across his vision. His heart was thumping too quickly, which reminded of the previous afternoon, when Arthur had put his hand on his chest to stop him from getting up. It had been warm and heavy and grounding, an anchor to focus on even as his mind had tried to float back into unconsciousness.

Merlin had thought he'd felt Arthur's calluses through his shirt, the rough patches of skin that came from sword practice, searing finger-shaped brands into his skin with their unearthing warmth. It had been easy to slide into sleep, real, natural sleep instead of the diffuse darkness he'd been stuck in, and even the echo of the memory was enough to make him straighten up and turn his back on the river now.

He just had to give Arthur his shirt, and then he might even get to take a nap to restore his sapped energy. The first stumbling step back towards their camp felt like a lead weight was pulling on his legs, but Merlin took it anyway, gritting his teeth. He could picture the exasperated, slightly concerned frown Arthur would be wearing when he'd ask Merlin where he'd been, and Merlin would hold out his shirt, and Arthur would take it. And maybe their fingers would brush, another searing, anchoring touch that would guide him into dreamless sleep in the evening.


	7. Hide and Seek

A few days later, staring up at the stars winking down at him from the night sky, Gwaine couldn't sleep.

True, his navigational skills weren't nearly as advanced as Arthur and Leon's, but even Gwaine had realized some nights ago that something was wrong. As clear as the nights were these days, the stars never looked the same. They seemed to move around at random, hiding behind the daylight to huddle close to each other in startling bursts of brightness, or accumulate into pinpoints.

It had taken an evening of Arthur and Leon scowling down at a map and up at the ever-darkening sky for Gwaine to understand that they were well and truly lost. Nobody could explain it, but the near-certain knowledge of magic hung thick in the air between them that evening, as frowns etched deeper and deeper into their brows.

It wasn't just the stars, though. The moon, which Gwaine had thought was waning before, had looked almost full the next night, and just now he couldn't see it at all. There was no way to navigate by the night sky as both Arthur and Leon had learned to do. They only knew that they were still vaguely headed east, judging from each morning's sunrise; but what with how the rest of the celestial bodies seemed to be acting up, none of them wanted to rely just on that.

Still, they didn't have much of a choice, and although they couldn't have been in the forest for longer than a week, it felt like it had been forever to Gwaine. There was no real sense of time like this, with the moon just eclipsing itself whenever it wanted and the green of the forest steady and bright around them, refusing to blend into the darker hues of summer.

He could tell that it wore all of them down, the general confusion of being lost coupled with the knowledge that Percival, Elyan and the two inexperienced squires were trudging around somewhere in the forest as well. They hadn't seen a trace of the others yet, but nor had they encountered any of those evil sorcerers that the innkeeper had mentioned.

Personally, though, Gwaine wouldn't have minded a bit of excitement, especially since they had all begun to notice that someone—or some _thing_ —was following them.

It was done surreptitiously enough, and sometimes he thought his mind was just playing tricks on him. But there was simply no way to ignore the noises they heard at night, of the undergrowth rustling around them despite the stillness of the air and the tree trunks groaning in protest as though stirred by an invisible breeze. It felt like the very forest was keeping its attention fixed on their group, and Gwaine would have to have been a fool not to notice the animals that watched them sometimes. Birds would perch in the lower branches of trees to track their daily journeys, flocks of deer regarded them with their glittering dark eyes when they rode past. And one time Gwaine had seen pairs of golden eyes peeking out at him from behind a tree, watching him with the unhurried attention of predators stalking their prey.

Still, the wildlife watching their every step didn't explain the prickly, uncomfortable feeling that all of them noticed and that no one could explain away. Sometimes they thought they heard voices and footsteps nearby, the familiar rustle and clang of armor that heralded soldiers coming their way. But every time, their path seemed to readjust itself ever-so-slightly, directing them safely away from the barely-there noises.

Gwaine frowned to himself, folding his arms behind his head in an attempt to get more comfortable. Their nightly fire was crackling on his left, and if he craned his neck, he could barely make out Arthur's shadowy shape, sitting on a tree stump and keeping a watchful eye on the small clearing as the others slept. The stump seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, because Gwaine certainly hadn't noticed it when they'd first set up camp.

The thought of the forest not only watching, but _looking out_ for them was somewhat unsettling, to say the least. If he was honest with himself, though, Gwaine wasn't nearly as frightened or even wary as he probably should be, faced with a type of sorcery he'd never encountered before. But other than redirecting trails and rearranging its clearings, the forest wasn't _doing_ anything to them, and until it did, he was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.

Not for the first time, Gwaine thought that the whole thing made more sense in the light of what Merlin had told them a few nights ago. They'd sat around the fire sharing surprisingly ripe apples that they'd found in an orchard, and Merlin had said, tiredly, that there was something they ought to know.

As tired as he'd been at the time, Gwaine hadn't missed the sharp warning look Arthur had given Merlin, or the way Lancelot had choked on the water he'd been drinking. Merlin didn't notice, though, and launched into a long, rambling summary of what he said was a song he'd heard once upon a time. If Merlin hadn't looked so exhausted, Gwaine would have tried to get him to sing it to them, if only to lighten the mood.

Gwaine shook his head, and propped himself up on his elbows to get a better view of the clearing. He still didn't quite know if he believed any of it—that the tale that the innkeeper had told them of the battle for the forest was true, and that the Green Knight, of all people, was the man who'd valiantly defended his home. But somehow, the thought of him buried deep in the forest by grateful animals rang true, in a way that Gwaine couldn't explain rationally.

The whole forest spirit thing was fitting as well, but even as Gwaine had found himself absently nodding along to Merlin's words, Leon and Lancelot had exchanged a baffled glance. Still, neither of them interrupted Merlin—out of sheer courtesy, Gwaine thought, because Merlin really had looked like he might keel over any moment. And he seemed so determined to let them know about the whole thing that none of them had had the heart to interrupt.

So they were stuck in a magical forest, which was somehow owned by the Green Knight, and if they ever happened to stumble across that mysterious Green Chapel, Gwaine would get his head lobbed off (another of those things that he didn't dare think about for too long, because he had the sneaking suspicion that his eagerness at the challenge was wearing off). And to top it off, their last wineskin was gone, courtesy of Leon, who had returned to their camp in desperate need of a drink a few days ago.

Gwaine sighed, rolling over and out of his bedroll. Sleep was eluding him, and the next watch was his anyway, so he might as well get up already and keep Arthur company. He stood and stretched, his spine realigning itself with a series of satisfying pops that were swallowed by the crackle of the fire. The night air felt clearer up here, and he sucked it in in deep lungfuls, chasing the last vestiges of drowsiness from his mind. It wasn't as chilly as it had been out of the forest, and so Gwaine saw no need to wrestle his coat out of the lumps of his luggage.

None of the others so much as stirred when he carefully stepped over Lancelot's legs and picked his way around Leon's bedroll. Gwaine had been surprised when Arthur had dragged his bedroll next to Merlin's when he'd thought no one was watching, but with how odd Merlin had been acting as of late, it made sense. Now, Merlin was sleeping, his face turned towards the fire, features slack for once instead of oddly scrunched up, like he was holding something back.

Sometimes Merlin slept restlessly, and on other nights he barely moved for the depth of his unconsciousness. Gwaine had long since lost count of all the times he'd tried to find out what was wrong (or overheard someone else asking the same questions, at that), and the unending chain of _"I'm fine"_ s that Merlin was supplying them with was sure to last them a lifetime. He was clearly not fine, but no matter how disoriented and almost ill he seemed, he was clearly still lucid enough not to want anyone to worry about him.

Gwaine made sure to let twigs snap under his feet as he approached Arthur; he didn't much fancy being mistaken for a random bandit. The prince just gave him a brief glance at Gwaine's hushed greeting, though, eyes dark and haunted in the firelight, and Gwaine resigned himself to sitting down cross-legged on the ground and not saying anything for a long while.

All things considered, it was understandable how cross everyone was becoming, especially with how often Arthur's gaze strayed to Merlin's sleeping form. They were never far apart these days, if Gwaine stopped to think about it, and it made for an interesting change, considering the way things had been between them at the start of their journey. Back then it had been Merlin who stuck to Arthur's side, and now it was Arthur who barely let his manservant out of his sight anymore, although he was being much more subtle about it.

There was no mistaking the deeply troubled look on his face now, though, not even beneath the cover of darkness. Lines of worry etched tiny grooves in the smooth skin of Arthur's forehead whenever Merlin shifted in his sleep, only to smooth out again when he stilled once more. Gwaine watched him for a while, thoughtful, and let the silence stretch.

"We're quite lost by now, aren't we?" he ventured at last, pretending not to notice the way Arthur flinched and jerked his gaze away from Merlin at the sudden sound of his voice.

For just a moment, Arthur blinked at him as though he hadn't even really seen Gwaine until now. Then he sighed, looking down with a small shrug; for the first time, Gwaine saw that he'd taken off his belt and spread it across his lap, all of his daggers within easy reach.

"If _we're_ lost, I wonder where Percival and Elyan are," Arthur replied, his voice scratchy with disuse. He sent a dark look at the forest around them, up into the swaying treetops and the mysteriously rearranged stars. "Since they were abducted by sorcerers and all."

Gwaine winced, not having thought of that. "Point," he conceded, shifted a little to get more comfortable on the ground, and went back to watching the fire.

They were silent for another long while. At night, the flames were bright enough to leave afterimages in Gwaine's eyes, but he still kept his gaze fixed on their incessant dance, knowing that if he glanced to the side, he had to watch Arthur looking at Merlin again. The sight was oddly hopeless, since Merlin was lying still and unresponsive in his bedroll, unaware of the close vigil that was kept over him.

"I'm sure it'll all work out," Gwaine said, a bit lamely, because this whole cheering up thing wasn't exactly his forte. It was usually Leon who attempted to bolster people's spirits like that, or even Merlin himself, but as neither of them were awake, the task fell to him.

Arthur let out a slow breath, his eyes dark and troubled, apparently not surprised when Gwaine's attempt at a charming smile fell flat. "There's no way to get him to a physician here," he replied, with uncharacteristic hesitance, like this was the first time he so much as dared to voice that thought.

As if in reply, Merlin shifted suddenly, huddling a little deeper into his nest of blankets. The words were innocent enough, born of a concern that had been nagging at Gwaine as well, but there was something else hovering just out of reach, a kind of resigned knowledge that made him pause. He leaned forward, but Arthur evaded his gaze, staring down at his daggers instead like he already regretted his words.

"You know," Gwaine stated bluntly, not even all that astonished. A muscle twitched in Arthur's jaw, but it was enough of a slip to confirm his suspicion. "You _know_ what's happening to him."

For a moment, Gwaine thought Arthur would get up and walk away, or punch him in the face, or both. For the first time since he'd joined him, Arthur was looking at him, truly _seeing_ Gwaine, the haze of his preoccupied thoughts having been ripped away. Even by the firelight his gaze was steely, unforgiving, an unspoken promise of swift retribution if Gwaine's realization inadvertently ended up harming Merlin in any way.

Which was ridiculous, really, because he was Merlin's _friend_ and would never do anything to him, but then Arthur sighed, most of the fight draining out of his shoulders. "I can't tell you," he said, the words wooden and practiced, like he'd spent a long time turning them over in his head during sleepless nights.

Gwaine stared, thinking that he'd misheard, but Arthur didn't take the words back. There was no stopping the sharp, bitter laugh that escaped him, and so Gwaine didn't even try, and even welcomed the unexpected surge of anger that went through him.

"That's what Lancelot said," he pointed out, not surprised when Arthur gave him a wary look and shifted a little on his tree stump. He spread his hands, trying for a grin although he'd rather have jumped up and shaken Arthur back and forth until a more satisfying answer tumbled out of his mouth. "No one tells me anything anymore these days. I wonder why."

Arthur didn't reply, but his expression made it fairly obvious that the answer was evident to him. All things considered, Gwaine was rather surprised at just how much that stung, the blatant admission of lingering mistrust in Arthur's carefully guarded features. It didn't occur to him to wonder if Lancelot had indeed been wrong in his assessment of him—right now, he just beat the feeling into submission and tried to calm the dangerous, angry heat that was simmering in his bones.

He shook his head, briefly glancing at Merlin who was still sleeping, oblivious, but now with a tiny frown etched between his eyebrows. "I may not be the prime example of a chivalric knight," he began, trying to sound calm and rational, but something about his tone must have set Arthur off instead, because all of a sudden his eyes were blazing and he was leaning forward.

"No, you're just a reckless fool who doesn't know when to step down," Arthur said, refusing to raise his voice, but his scathing tone more than made up for the lack of volume. "You've proven as much when you agreed to get your head chopped off for a bit of fun."

Gwaine didn't realize that he'd stood until he was suddenly towering over Arthur, staring down at him with his fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms so hard that it hurt. There was a strange rushing noise filling his ears, drowning out the hissing fire, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than for Arthur to get up as well, just so they could engage in a short scuffle.

"Listen, you stuck-up, self-important—," Gwaine snarled, relishing in the clean wave of anger that swept through him, cutting out the uncomfortable twinge at the thought of the Green Knight's challenge. He felt unhinged, like he was dangerously close to blurting it all out, shouting that he didn't need Arthur's opinion on the whole matter as well, that it was bad enough to have Merlin's concerned words coming back to him during the long hours of the night.

Finally, though, he just raked a frustrated hand through his hair, and forced down the simmer in his blood. It wouldn't do to get into a full-blown shouting match with Arthur, least of all because it was not actually the prince's fault that Gwaine was having second thoughts about the affair. He pushed it to the back of his mind, taking a deep, calming breath before he looked at Arthur again.

"I care about Merlin too," he snapped, more quietly now, though no less angrily. Arthur was watching him, his expression wary, but _he_ didn't look like he was close to letting his temper get the better of him yet. "He's my friend, and I _care_ about him, which is more than _you_ can say for yourself."

That got a rise out of Arthur all right. His features closed off, like a door slamming shut in Gwaine's face, although Gwaine had no qualms about wrenching it open once more with brute force. Arthur opened his mouth, clear defiance in his eyes, but Gwaine interrupted him with a barked-out laugh before he could speak.

"Don't tell me you have no idea what I'm talking about," he said, helpless to stop a note of bitterness from creeping into his voice. "And don't think I haven't seen it, how you treated Merlin like dirt—he's done _nothing_ to deserve that, least of all from you."

There was a dangerous flash in Arthur's eyes, and he was on his feet and crowding into Gwaine's personal space before he could so much as blink. His hand was fisted around one of his daggers, not drawing it yet, but close, if the snarl on his face was anything to go by. Arthur was so close that Gwaine could feel the heat rolling off of him in waves, every muscle locked tight and trembling with suppressed rage.

"Do not presume to know _anything_ about what Merlin has done," Arthur snapped, sounding menacing and absolutely at the end of his tether—but there was the slightest waver in his tone, as though even Arthur wasn't sure what Merlin had or hadn't done anymore.

Gwaine was all too glad for the chance to twist the knife a little deeper. He leaned forward, close enough to feel Arthur's breath on his face. "You know what I think?" he hissed, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "I think the only thing Merlin has ever _done_ ," he paused, the word dripping with scorn, "was to be loyal to you. And _you_ have done nothing to deserve him."

For just a moment, Gwaine thought that this was it, that he'd pushed Arthur far enough to break. His features twisted, and Gwaine was suddenly yanked forward when Arthur gripped him by the front of his shirt. He dug his fingers into Arthur's shoulders to steady himself, but strangely, he found that he didn't feel like punching him anymore, not now that he'd discovered that words seemed to be a better weapon. Up close, the prince's eyes looked nearly black, but to his surprise, Gwaine could see the anger warring with helplessness in his gaze.

With a kind of malicious delight, he plowed on. He'd always liked teasing Arthur, but this was something else, something just short of a fist fight—but it just felt so good to unleash all of his frustration on the prince at last, to use his righteous anger on Merlin's behalf against him.

"Do you think Merlin is just going to— bounce back from all of this, or what?" he asked, not even trying to disguise his scorn. Arthur stilled, his jaw clenched to hold on to some semblance of control, but Gwaine saw the flicker in his eyes all the same. "Do you honestly believe he'll just take it and take it until even _you_ run out of things you can do to him?"

Arthur's throat worked as he swallowed, and Gwaine felt his grip loosen in the front of his shirt. He looked like he was desperately trying to hold on to his fury, to remind himself why Gwaine was wrong, but found himself failing. There wasn't anything to stop the slide of his mind into doubt, and Gwaine relished in the grim spark of gratification that fed the residual tight ball of anger in his chest.

"No?" Gwaine pressed, and allowed himself a brief, feral grin when Arthur didn't reply. "Yeah, I didn't think so. One of these days he's going to break and run far away from you, like anyone else would have done ages ago."

That seemed to breathe some life back into Arthur's stubborn streak, because his eyes flashed and he opened his mouth. But Gwaine had gone too far to back down and actually let Arthur get a word in edgeways now, and interrupted him before he could speak.

"Oh, you _have_ been rather civil to him these past few days," he stated, grimly, and found himself shaking Arthur a little, though the prince made no move to shake off his hold. "But don't think you can fool me. As soon as he's well again, you'll be back to ignoring him, treating him like he's worth less than the mud stuck to the soles of your boots."

"He's not," Arthur suddenly said, his voice coming out rough and gravelly like he'd been screaming. His hands had loosened completely, resting against Gwaine's chest in limp fists. The anger wasn't gone, but it was muted somehow, hidden beneath a shroud of surprising emotion in Arthur's eyes. "He's— you have no _idea_ what he's worth."

"And you do?" Gwaine volleyed back, to cover up his mild shock at the raw honesty in the words—he hadn't really bargained for _this_. "Because you sure as hell act like you don't."

Arthur didn't reply, probably because he knew it was true, and by now Gwaine felt it was safe to let go of his shoulders. He thought Arthur looked dazed, like he'd just woken up from a long, confusing dream, and Gwaine pretended not to see the defeat wrought into the drooping line of his shoulders when he stepped back.

They were silent for a long while, as the fire crackled merrily and Leon shifted in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible before rolling over in his bedroll. At some point Merlin had turned around as well, because he was now facing away from them, his head turned so he would look into the forest if he opened his eyes. Still, no one seemed to have heard anything, and Gwaine told himself to be grateful for small favors.

"Whatever," Gwaine said at last, more flippantly than he'd intended, to cover up the prickle of discomfort that crawled up his spine. It was not like he _regretted_ anything he'd said, but all things considered, he hadn't been prepared for his words to have that kind of impact. "Just think about it. And it's time for my watch anyway."

Arthur just stared at him for a moment before the words registered with him, but then he visibly shook himself, rubbing a tired hand across his forehead like he wanted to wipe away the thoughts that had been stagnating there for far too long. He bent down to retrieve his knives and brushed past Gwaine without another word, rounding the fire until he got to his bedroll, with steps that looked uncertain even in the meager light of the fire.

Gwaine turned away to give Arthur some privacy, staring sightlessly into the dark forest instead. He felt strangely tired, wrung out, now that the tide of his anger had washed out the words he'd been keeping inside ever since Arthur had started ignoring Merlin all those weeks ago. Still, he told himself sternly that there was no reason to feel guilty for shouting at Arthur like that—it wasn't like anyone else would have done it, and as far as Gwaine was concerned, it had been about time.

The look in Arthur's eyes still bothered him, though, the sheer unexpectedness of the helplessness that hadn't been nearly enough to cover up the pain beneath. All this time, Gwaine had never really thought about Arthur's end of the deal, about the toll that the whole situation must have been taking on the prince all along. It was still Arthur's own fault, of course, but that didn't mean that he didn't deserve to be cut some slack.

Sighing deeply, Gwaine moved to sit down on the tree stump that Arthur had vacated earlier, and wiped a tired hand across his face, unconsciously mirroring Arthur's gesture. Between his watch and the myriad of thoughts that were now swirling through his head, it looked like it would be a long night.

 

  


 

Strangely enough, Arthur woke up the next morning feeling as refreshed as he hadn't in weeks, having slept like a log all through the night.

Thinking back to his argument with Gwaine, it reminded him of a summer storm, raging across the sky and clearing the air with claps of thunder. He wasn't going to _tell_ him that, of course, and so they spent the next few days treating each other with a polite sort of distance that only slowly melted back into the semblance of companionship they'd shared before.

No one seemed to notice, though. Leon still pored over their map whenever possible, trying to find hills or other landmarks they could use to mark their progress, to no avail. Lancelot seemed more concerned about Percival, Elyan, and the two inexperienced squires than about the fact that they were still lost, and Merlin—

Merlin worried him. It wasn't anything Arthur could just shake off and scoff at, not anymore, and he didn't bother telling himself that he wasn't trying to look out for him, his senses attuned to his manservant as they hadn't been in weeks. Every glance at the way Merlin slumped in his saddle, at the haziness in his expression and the gold that kept flickering through his eyes, just made Arthur feel more helpless. It was magic, Merlin had told him as much; but Merlin had also said it was going to get _easier_ , and now that it apparently wasn't, Arthur had no idea what to do.

It wasn't like he could just grab Merlin, shake him back and forth and demand him to snap out of it. For one, he could see that Merlin was _trying_ , was desperately struggling not to succumb to the pull of whatever strange power had wormed its way under his skin. And besides, Merlin's muscles tended to go loose and pliant whenever Arthur touched him, as though he wanted to wrap himself around the solidness of his touch, so he probably wouldn't respond all that well to being grabbed by the shoulders.

The strange half-asleep trance seemed to come and go in waves. Sometimes Merlin barely responded when he was spoken to, gazing up at the canopy of leaves with a completely vacant expression, and took to stumbling around beneath the trees with a dreamlike slowness, brushing his fingers over their ancient bark. But sometimes he went hours without drifting off too much, eyes alert to his surroundings and mercifully blue; unfortunately, those were also the times when he assured everyone that he was completely fine and had no idea why they were worried about him.

It occurred to Arthur that whatever was happening to Merlin, he _did_ seem fully aware of it, no matter how dazed he appeared to be sometimes. Just a few days ago, he had put one of those lucid periods to good use by following Arthur to a small, secluded pond, leaving Leon, Gwaine, and Lancelot to their frowning contemplation of the map.

It had been quite a warm day, and Arthur had just been toweling his hair dry after a quick jump into the cool water, his clothes sticking to the residual dampness of his skin. Merlin had stepped out from beneath the trees and slowly walked over to where Arthur was sitting on a sun-warmed outcropping of rock, giving him a wan smile in greeting.

"I need to talk to you," he'd said, without any preamble at all, and sat down on the rock as well. "Because I—"

He paused, and sunk his teeth into his lower lip to regain his hard-won focus. Arthur's gaze had been inexplicably drawn to the bob of Merlin's throat as he swallowed, and for a moment, the urge to reach out had been nearly unbearable. He could almost see it, the way his palm would fit neatly into the valley between Merlin's shoulder blades, weighing him down with the kind of anchoring touch that would steady him.

"I don't know what's going to happen," Merlin continued, softly, and this time Arthur heard the small waver in his voice. Suddenly, their gazes met, and although Arthur had seen how tired Merlin looked lately, the worn-out, desperate exhaustion on Merlin's features startled him. "And I don't want more secrets."

There'd been a suspicious shine to Merlin's eyes, like it had taken all of his waning strength to say that, and right then, Arthur hadn't thought of anything but the sudden need to reassure him. He reached over to cover Merlin's hand with his own, ignoring both the flinch and the hissed, in-drawn breath, and squeezed the clammy fingers under his, trying to infuse them with some of his warmth.

"Tell me," he said, gently, trying to pitch his voice low as though he was talking to a skittish horse. A part of him rather wanted to assure Merlin that whatever it was could wait, and that Merlin should use these hours of lucidity to get some true sleep, because Arthur had seen how much he tossed and turned during an average night, like the magic didn't leave him alone even then.

But Merlin's composure seemed threadbare and worn enough as it was, and so Arthur hadn't protested when he took a deep, shuddering breath, and poured out a long, off-kilter explanation of all the other things the dragon had told him and that he'd just not gotten the chance to pass on to Arthur just yet.

Arthur had listened in silence, occasionally biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from interrupting. Merlin's hand slipped out from under his, gesturing, and Arthur had learned why his father had seemed to know the Green Knight, and why the man had come to Camelot's court in the first place. He was sure that Merlin would have gloated if he hadn't had to concentrate so hard on keeping his thoughts together, because he'd been right about the Green Knight all along.

For some reason, it didn't even surprise Arthur all that much to find out that the man himself was not really the culprit behind the murders. After having spent nearly a week in his strange forest, with its paths guiding them away from anything that even remotely sounded like Mercian patrols, it was hard to hold on to the idea of supposed evilness. And although he wondered at it later, Arthur hadn't been able to feel anything beyond dull, bitter astonishment when Merlin had told him in a wavering voice that the true conspirator was Morgana.

Between his fear for Merlin's sanity and the nagging suspicion that they would never find Percival and Elyan in these woods, there simply wasn't any more room in Arthur's head. He couldn't think about it just then—he couldn't take himself away to a quiet corner and analyze this new betrayal, turn the shard of it over and over in his mind until it made sense.

Arthur hadn't forgotten the golden glint of the crown on Morgana's head, or the deep-seated, uncompromising hatred in her eyes when she'd looked down at his— _their_ father, after all. There was no reason to assume that she had come to her senses in the meantime, that she'd ever show up at Camelot's gates, dressed in rags and desperately repentant, although he was sure that Uther hoped for it, during the long nights when even the sleeping potions couldn't grant him peace.

He'd tucked it away, shoving it to the back of his mind to be dealt with later, and just listened and nodded and reassured his manservant as best as he could when Merlin seemed to lose his train of thought and launched into a rambling apology for not having seen that coming. With the state Merlin was in, Arthur would be damned if he let him see the scraping sting that this revelation had caused, like a rusty blade twisting lazily in his stomach.

Merlin had willingly followed him back to the others, and overall, Arthur still didn't know what to do with the knowledge that Morgana was apparently not done wreaking havoc in Camelot yet. He had no idea what Merlin expected him to do about it, or if he even expected anything at all. But what was even more worrying was the fact that even Merlin didn't know whether to just keep going where the forest seemed to be leading them, or turn around and attempt to find their way out again.

If what Merlin had suggested was indeed true, if the Green Knight had been picking out their journey for them all along, if he truly needed Merlin's help to break free of Morgana's enchantment... Arthur felt doubtful about the whole thing, to say the least. There was no telling whether Merlin would even be capable of helping, with the state he was in. And if it had been part of Morgana's plan to lure them into Mercia and straight to Bayard's patrols, they were well and truly done for. Another disagreement with Mercia was the last thing they needed.

They stopped for the night when dark clouds started to creep across the previously blue sky, heralding rain, and Arthur couldn't hold back a sigh of relief as he dismounted. All the riding they'd been doing felt oddly futile here, because none of them could tell if they were actually getting anywhere. The stars were useless, most likely hidden behind a cleverly-wrought illusion that must have turned many a traveler around even before Leon had first looked up at the night sky with a frown. At any rate, it was better to set up camp than to follow arbitrary winding paths that led them nowhere.

With the others hanging up thick folds of cloth between low-hanging branches to prepare for the torrential downpour that would surely hit them soon, Arthur went on a much-needed hunt with Leon. No matter how thick the undergrowth always looked, it wasn't actually that hard to trudge through the forest even without the guidance of a path. And Arthur had found that he liked plowing his way through the thicket like this in search of their dinner.

They stalked a large deer to the edge of a rocky slope, but even as he watched it go down under his and Leon's combined shots, Arthur couldn't enjoy the hunt like he normally would have. It stuck to his mind like glue, the memory of the desperate fatigue in Merlin's eyes when he'd followed him to the pond and told him everything that he thought Arthur needed to know. It was like Merlin was trying to make sure that they'd have all the knowledge they needed, just in case he ended up— delirious with magic, or wherever he was headed.

The thought sat uncomfortably behind Arthur's ribs as he helped Leon butcher the deer, his movements stiff and automatic. Not even Merlin seemed to know what was going to happen to him if this assault of wild magic didn't let up, and as much as he hated to admit it, Arthur was helpless. This wasn't anything he could _kill_ , he couldn't threaten it with his sword and force it to back off and leave his manservant alone. Well, maybe threatening the Green Knight would be more useful, if they ever found him in this thicket, but somehow, Arthur doubted it.

With the numerous noises of the forest echoing around them, from rustling leaves to faraway bird songs, Arthur nearly missed the sounds of footsteps and clanking armor. But when they finally reached his ears, he and Leon stopped almost as one, and Arthur made a swift mental note to compliment Leon on his finely-honed reflexes later.

They froze, staring out into the woods, two knights standing stock still under the trees and holding up a skinned deer between them, but Arthur only spared a brief thought to what a strange sight they presented. A slow, insistent rush of energy crested through his veins, sharpening his senses with split-second precision until he could hear even the muted crunch of leaves under his feet.

The sounds occurred again, this time distinctly from their left, an unintelligible murmur of conversation and the metallic clink of chainmail. Arthur turned to exchange a glance with Leon, but the older knight wasn't looking at him—he stared at the forest instead, with an expression Arthur didn't think he'd ever quite seen on his face, a kind of baffled awe.

He followed Leon's gaze to the trees, just in time to catch a glimpse of impossible movement in the bushes, a faint groaning protest of bark as it was— _moved_ , Arthur thought, and felt his mouth fall open at the sight.

An ancient oak shook off a shower of leaves and tiny twigs as it stirred and _bent_ to the side, without even the faintest breeze to spur it into movement. Two tall beeches bowed away in a similar manner, their trunks twisting, and when Arthur looked down, the grass and bushes were being sucked back into the earth, swallowed up by the mossy ground to reveal a winding path leading to the freshly formed gap between the trees.

The oak shuddered one last time before stilling, and _then_ a breeze started up, an insistent gust of wind that pushed Arthur squarely between the shoulders as though to urge him on. He closed his mouth with some difficulty, wishing he didn't have his hands full of deer, although he knew fairly well that his sharpest dagger wouldn't be of any help against this—if it even was something he needed to defend himself against.

This time, Leon met his gaze, looking shell-shocked but determined. They exchanged a quick nod, and stepped carefully as they ducked into the gap between the trees, the ground spongy and soft under the soles of their boots.

Neither of them spoke as they followed the path away from the sounds of the soldiers. There wasn't anything to be said, after all, because while they'd known about the forest's strange tendency to rearrange itself around them, it was another thing entirely to _see_ it happen.

And as winding as the trail was, it was leading them away from what had most likely been a group of Mercian soldiers on patrol. As crazy as it seemed to even voice the thought to himself, but right then and there, Arthur felt more inclined than ever to believe that something—or some _one_ —in the forest was indeed watching out for them.

By an unspoken agreement, they didn't mention the incident when they reached their camp; it wouldn't do to alarm the others with this newest almost-encounter with Mercian forces. Arthur left the dead deer to Lancelot and Gwaine's capable hands, satisfied to see that they'd already gotten a fairly decent fire going.

With a bit of luck, the rain wouldn't start until they'd each had a bowl of stewed venison. The others had built an array of makeshift shelters beneath the trees, not as big or even as waterproof as tents would have been, but with only one packhorse, it was all they had. Arthur watched for a while as Leon went over to check on their horses and make sure they were all hobbled, but the restless energy he'd felt on the hunt was still thrumming through his bones, and eventually he went off in search of Merlin.

Half hoping that he wouldn't find him curled up and completely lost to the forest's magic, Arthur treated carefully once he reached the treeline. But even a short glance around revealed that he needn't have been that cautious—Merlin was sitting beneath one of their makeshift tents, spreading an oilcloth on the soft, springy grass.

For a long moment, Arthur just watched him, the deliberate carefulness in his movements that looked like he had to think very hard about each one. No matter how often Merlin insisted that he was fine, even with his back turned to Arthur, it was glaringly obvious that he was slowly but steadily being worn down. He knew that the others had noticed it too—hell, it was hard _not_ to realize that something was off, and if only the numerous concerned glances that Merlin had drawn to himself during the past few days were enough to refuel his energy, he would really have been fine by now.

Merlin dragged their bedrolls under the little tent, but had to steady himself with a hand on the ground as he overbalanced. Arthur didn't realize he'd taken a step forward until a twig snapped under his boot, but Merlin didn't even twitch, to preoccupied with regaining his equilibrium. Arthur let out a slow breath and forced himself to relax again, safe in the knowledge that Merlin wouldn't see him, no matter how long he let his gaze linger on the soft spot of exposed skin at his collarbone where his collar had slipped.

Once he'd dug his fingers in there, he suddenly remembered, back when he'd felt raw and furious, forced into the defensive when Merlin had told him that Lancelot knew of his magic. He'd pressed his knuckles into the yielding muscle there, not at all surprised when he'd found it soft as Merlin refused to even shake him off. As easily as he bruised, Merlin must have felt it for days afterwards, a dull, residual sting where Arthur had hurled everything at him, his fury and his helplessness, and the sense of having lost a battle before it had even begun.

Arthur didn't know how long he stood under the trees as the sky grew darker, the clouds looming overhead, heavy with rain. He had thought they'd been making some real progress, but Gwaine's words had knocked over everything in his head again, the neat stack of little acts of loyalty that he'd been ready to weigh against Merlin's betrayal.

His heart was hammering in his chest, in his palms and temples, but for once Arthur didn't care, didn't swallow the shivery feeling down again. Merlin was slipping away, his control eroded away by the patient, endless magical pull of the forest, and he needed something to hold him there. He might simply disappear, just like Arthur had thought he would when he'd first touched the Green Knight's ivy. He would shake off his bothersome mortal shell and take to the skies in a flash of golden light, and Arthur wanted to, _had_ to give him something to hold on to.

Arthur didn't realize he'd moved until he was standing next to Merlin, looking down at his bowed head and his clumsy fingers as he spread an extra blanket on his bedroll. Something scratchy was lodged in his throat, and Arthur took a deep breath to get rid of it, watching Merlin's head turn to him as if in slow motion.

"Merlin," he said, more quietly than he'd intended. But Merlin didn't look up, perhaps fearing he'd end up flat on his back if he tilted his head back, and Arthur reached out without thinking, cupping Merlin's shoulder with a careful palm. Merlin swayed into the touch, eyes closed and features drawn, like he was in pain, or like he'd been before and Arthur's hand was the only thing keeping it at bay now.

The silence stretched, and the moment passed, leaving Arthur suddenly self-conscious. He snatched his hand back and cleared his throat, glancing away to the clearing for a second, just to give himself something else to look at than the barely-there edge of gold in Merlin's eyes. The deer was roasting over the fire, Gwaine was trying to check on Gryngolet's horseshoes and kept getting toppled over for his efforts, and Leon was talking to Lancelot over the fire. As if by some unspoken agreement, no one was so much as looking at them.

He had his hands on his belt before he could second-guess himself, his thoughts devoid even of a plan. His fingers felt clumsy and stiff, but he finally yanked it off, the knives' pommels clinking, and dropped it unceremoniously in Merlin's lap.

"Get them clean," he ordered gruffly, his voice rough with some emotion he couldn't name, and Merlin just stared down at the weapons like he'd never seen them before.

He looked completely baffled, not even close to complaining about the extra chore like he might have done in any other situation. As Arthur watched, Merlin touched the largest dagger with a trembling hand like he feared it might disappear, and this time he did look up, his expression caught between shock and hope.

Merlin's eyes were wide and very bright, but so blessedly blue that Arthur almost found himself smiling, until they suddenly looked rather wet and Merlin ducked his head to hide his expression, eyebrows pulling together in a trembling frown.

He sniffed once, briefly turning his face into his shoulder to wipe at his eyes, almost angrily, like he was berating himself for his loss of control. But he opened the pouch on Arthur's belt, pulling out the rough cloth and the little bottle of oil that he normally used to polish Arthur's weapons, his movements steady although his hands were shaking.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, utterly shocked by the display of emotion that his careless gesture had triggered. It was just a chore, one that Merlin had performed hundreds of times before, surely he wouldn't lose his composure like that over something that he'd complained about often enough in the past, muttering that if Arthur had to clean his own damned knives, he might not feel the need to get them dirty so often—

 _Oh_ , Arthur thought, rather blankly, when he remembered that it had been a rather long time since he'd heard Merlin say that. After Merlin had told him about his magic, Arthur had felt a fool for ever having trusted him with his weapons, his _armor_ , the only things he could rely on to stand between him and death in battle.

Assigning their care to the armorer had been almost an afterthought, and he'd assumed that Merlin had understood, since he'd never asked after them. It must have stung, though, another heaviness added to the weight of guilt on Merlin's shoulders, a proof of everything he'd lost, of the trust that Arthur did not think him worthy of anymore.

Merlin took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly clenching his teeth against the tremble in his jaw, blinking slowly down at the streaks of dried blood on the blades. Arthur had no idea what to do or say, or if he even should say anything, staring down at Merlin's shaking shoulders. In the end he remained silent, because maybe Merlin expected to be teased for being a girl, and Arthur didn't feel like doing that right now.

Words stuck uselessly in his throat, a fluttery warmth unfolding slowly in his stomach as though it had lain in wait for this very moment. His fingers itched to close around Merlin's shoulder again, but he still remembered the way Merlin had swayed into the touch earlier, and Arthur didn't want to disarm him even further.

"I'll go and— help the others," he said, too quickly, and almost stumbled over a bedroll in his haste to retreat. _Stupid_ , he cursed himself, because he'd just wanted to give Merlin something to do, not remind him of the time when they'd barely spoken to each other.

Merlin didn't seem to hold it against him, though. He looked up and gave Arthur a wavering smile, his eyes full of tears but still blue, and for some reason Arthur's gaze drifted down to his bottom lip, plump and red where he must have been biting down on it. A strange, insistent hum started in his ears at the sight, dizzying him, but then Arthur clenched his hands at his sides to keep himself from reaching out, turned on his heel and walked back to the clearing.

Arthur was glad that the Leon and Lancelot were too busy with the fire to look at him when he approached them. Merlin had looked so relieved, so achingly eager that Arthur knew his daggers would be given the most thorough cleaning they had ever gotten. Merlin would probably sharpen them too, and nick his fingers numerous times in the process, and as dazed and disoriented as he was, it would take him ages.

But he'd present the knives to Arthur the next morning, with that easy grin that Arthur had gotten so used to, and a teasing glint in his eyes that seemed to say, _"go on, get them dirty again, now that I've cleaned them so thoroughly."_

Subconsciously, Arthur suspected that he'd known it all along, although he'd refused to listen to the tiny voice at the back of his mind before. Still, an unexpected surge of helpless affection gripped him when he realized that in spite of everything that had happened between them, Merlin was still Merlin—clumsy, stubborn Merlin, who wore his heart on his sleeve and who cried over an unexpected show of trust.

Leon gave him a quizzical look when Arthur joined him at the fire, but to his credit, he didn't say anything. Lancelot was approaching them, carrying an armful of fresh firewood, and Gwaine was coming back as well, seeming to have given up on Gryngolet. Arthur pretended to be engrossed in the sight of meat turning slowly on a spit over the fire, allowing himself a much-needed moment to compose himself.

It must have worked, since no one said anything, and Arthur found himself grateful that Merlin was alone for now, far from prying eyes and worried questions. He straightened up, determined to stop anyone from going to check up on Merlin until their dinner was ready, and moved to help Lancelot with the firewood.

 

  


 

Control, Merlin had learned the hard way since they'd entered the forest, was nothing more than a luxury.

It came and went in waves, as unpredictable as the shifting of the stars overhead, and it seemed like the harder Merlin tried to hold on to it, the more quickly it slipped out of his grasp. There wasn't anything he could do to keep himself from fraying at the edges, but what truly worried him was that he found it harder and harder to remember why he should even try.

Although he hated worrying the others, it helped to see them concerned for him. Sometimes, when he woke up and couldn't quite fathom why he shouldn't just roll over again and let himself fall back asleep to the gentle hum of the earth beneath him, a troubled, thoughtful glance from Lancelot was enough to rouse him after all. Putting on a brave front for them sapped his energy, but in a way, it also helped Merlin focus.

He'd lost his sense of time and space long ago, and if anyone had asked him how long they'd been in the forest, he wouldn't have been able to answer. It felt like forever, like a long string of days of trying and failing to steel himself and build up some sort of defense against the permeating allure of the crackling energy around him. By now, Merlin felt like he _knew_ the forest's magic like the back of his hand, but its curious familiarity wasn't helping. It just made it even harder to resist.

The waterskins slapped against his thigh in time with his unsteady gait, the sound helping him focus on the fact that Leon had asked him to refill them at a nearby stream. What little light trickled down through the leaves was thin and weak, and heavy, rain-laden clouds chased each other towards the horizon, the sharp breeze whipping Merlin's hair around his head. He'd barely slept the night before, kept awake by faraway sounds of thunder, mingling with the low, incessant thrum of the forest's heart beneath his bedroll.

In a way, it reminded him of standing in a river, water patiently eroding away the sand beneath his feet—except this was a river he couldn't step out of. Quick, eager little currents carried away bits and pieces of his control, and he didn't want to think of what would happen when there was nothing left.

The sky rumbled above him just when Merlin reached the stream, the distant thunder mingling with the splash and gurgle of water. Gravel dug painfully through his trousers as he fell to his knees and leaned forward, breathing shallowly, trying not to draw the air's crackling tension too deeply into his lungs. The coldness of the stream enclosed his hand like a fist when he clumsily held the first waterskin down, feeling the leather slowly fill with the icy weight of water.

Merlin shuddered in time with the next roll of thunder, as though it had reverberated through his bones. The very air seemed poised and waiting, longing to be torn apart and blown about by the impending rainstorm, like the forest had gotten quite sick of the heat right along with its travelers. Briefly, Merlin hoped that Leon and Gwaine wouldn't get caught in the downpour, knowing that they had left their camp earlier to hunt—but then again, he knew that the forest wouldn't let any harm come to them.

It took all of his strength to heave the filled waterskin out of the stream again, and he barely managed to cap it before his trembling hands went slack and numb, like their sinews had been cut by an invisible force. His skin felt stiff and too tight over the tremble in his muscles, and a mindless, primal part of his mind wanted to scratch it off, longed for nothing more than to break free of his mortal body just like the Green Knight had done centuries ago, and become one with the storm, soar up into the flash of lightning that briefly lit the glade.

Only when the first drop of rain hit his forehead did Merlin realize that he'd lain down. He felt weak, last night's lack of sleep catching up with him, and he couldn't think of a good reason to get up again, and so he didn't. He curled up on his side and turned his face into the slow drizzle that quickly became a harsh downpour, the rain bathing his aching head in cool, refreshing water.

There was no telling how long he lay there, only blinking when the raindrops began to collect in the corners of his eyes, and breathed. His focus dimmed and narrowed until all that mattered, all that _existed_ was the slosh and dribble of water all around him, the wet grass beneath his back and the occasional faraway crash of thunder. There was a reason why he shouldn't fall asleep like this, but Merlin didn't remember it, too caught up in the almighty din around him, the relieved creaks of ancient bark as the trees stretched up into the wind. He could feel the roots greedily sucking up the welcome downpour, an inexorable, strangely relaxing sensation, and he drowsed there for a long time, feeling not unlike he was being drunk down as well.

But some of the sounds didn't fit in with the dripping of water and the gurgling of the stream behind him, and gradually, Merlin managed to tilt his head, turning his face out of the rain that blurred his vision. Little currents of water ran down his jaw, quick and cool as though they were eager to drip down his cheeks and soak the grass under him. He thought he heard a voice from far away, trying to cut through the haze in his mind while it was drowned out by the rain, and finally, Merlin blinked and looked up.

Arthur was bent over him, his face just as wet with rain as Merlin's, blond hair slicked down and sticking up at ridiculous angles where he must have ran his fingers through it in agitation. He looked pale, the intense blue of his eyes standing out in sharp contrast against his white cheeks, and his lips were moving, although it took Merlin a moment to realize that they were forming his name. He was calling Merlin's name, over and over, the sound reaching Merlin as if through a long tunnel, and with a great effort, Merlin managed to meet his gaze.

There was a moment of strange, weightless quietude as their eyes met, and then Arthur sighed, long and low, like he'd been holding his breath ever since he'd found Merlin there. His hands were hovering strangely, and Merlin thought that he must have wanted to touch him, shake him out of his drowsy state, but didn't quite dare to, for fear of making things worse. He wondered what Arthur had thought when he'd found Merlin like that, lying in the wet grass with no care for the rain that ran through his hair and collected in his eyes like tears.

Merlin searched for annoyance in Arthur's features, because surely the prince had only come looking for him because he'd been gone for so long and everyone else was already back at camp, taking shelter from the rain. But he found none, just a strange, short-lived relief, and the same helplessness that he'd seen in Arthur's eyes when Arthur had dropped his daggers in Merlin's lap the day before.

He looked like he had no idea what he was even doing here, kneeling in the forest next to his manservant's prone form, but at the same time there didn't seem to be a place where Arthur would rather have been just then. His gaze flickered down Merlin's body as though searching for injuries, and he brought up an errant hand, perhaps to grip his shoulder. But then Arthur's thoughts seemed to catch up with him, and he hesitated, dropping his hand again when his fingers just barely brushed Merlin's arm.

Still, Merlin felt like a bell being struck, the jarring impact of Arthur's touch reverberating through his very bones. A shudder gripped him, and his body uncoiled on its own accord, fighting to prop him up into a sitting position to chase the warmth he'd barely felt through his sodden sleeve. His head spun with the motion, but he steadied himself on his elbows and pushed up ruthlessly, rivulets of water running down his tunic as he sat up.

Arthur looked surprised and a little concerned, but contrary to what Merlin had hoped, he didn't reach out to push him back down. Merlin drew in a slow breath through his nose, trying to regain his balance and his bearings all at once. He felt pathetic for begging for every touch like this, although he almost couldn't remember why it should ever be wrong to crave it, to look at the red-golden burn of Arthur's presence and want to bury himself there.

"This has to stop," Arthur said, his voice shaking ever-so-slightly. He raked a hand through his hair when Merlin looked at him, as if to keep himself from reaching out again, or maybe just to wipe his dripping hair out of his eyes. "Merlin, this _has_ to stop. You won't be able to hold out for much longer."

Merlin gave him a crooked smile, trying his best to look reassuring although he was still dizzy. The water had been soothing before, but all of a sudden his skin felt chafed by it, his mind rubbed raw by the too-loud dripping noise all around them. "Yeah, well," he croaked, surprised when his voice came out rough, and cleared his throat with some difficulty. "Tell that to the forest, then."

Arthur shook his head, droplets of water flying from his hair. "Is it the Green Knight who's doing this to you after all?" he asked harshly, like he hadn't heard Merlin's words. The look on his face worried Merlin the tiniest bit, because he knew this steely, unbending expression—he usually saw it just before Arthur did something noble and stupid and dangerous. "I'll find him and make him stop, I don't care about the stupid shine you've taken to him—"

"Arthur," Merlin ventured, tentatively, but Arthur cut him off with a harsh gesture, his eyes wide and wild and helplessly bright. He'd been so uncharacteristically patient with Merlin, waiting and watching and doing his best to give him space and help at the same time, just like the knights had done, but now it seemed like he'd reached the end of his tether.

"No!" he shouted, voice echoing strangely under the trees, and suddenly his hands were on Merlin again, dragging him up with no noticeable effort, as if Arthur couldn't stand to see Merlin slumped on the ground anymore, weighed down by dizziness and barely able to sit.

Just when Merlin's legs started to give out under him, he felt rough, wet bark dig into his back, and then he was stuck between the tree and Arthur's hands and the harsh, helpless look in his eyes. Days of pent-up frustration finally ran their course, and Arthur shook him once, and Merlin's head swam with the feeling of Arthur's knuckles pressed to his collarbones. "He is _driving you mad_ , Merlin, and I won't stand for it! I can't stand by and do nothing—"

" _Arthur_ ," Merlin repeated, a little louder this time, secretly proud of himself for being able to speak at all. Arthur stilled suddenly, as though he'd realized just now that he had basically slammed Merlin up against a tree, albeit gently. Merlin saw his throat work as he swallowed, and his own hands had shot up and gripped Arthur's wrists before he could let go of his shirt.

"There _is_ nothing to do," he said urgently, tightening his hold. His touch must have felt cold and clammy, but Merlin couldn't even think of letting go, not when he _needed_ the contact to focus, because he couldn't reassure Arthur while his thoughts were skittering all over the place with nothing to ground them. "And it's _not_ the Green Knight who's doing this. The forest must have been magical long before he even died here—it's so _old_ , it's like its very own chasm of time—and now it's all bound up in the Green Knight, and the Green Knight is bound by Morgana, and—"

"Is _she_ doing this, then?" Arthur demanded feverishly, his mind visibly latching on to the mention of Morgana's name. He hadn't been listening, hadn't heard the urgency in Merlin's tone, and Merlin realized that Arthur was just looking for something to fight.

Merlin exhaled slowly, and somehow, he was not surprised at all. It was just the way Arthur's mind worked—Merlin knew how much he abhorred helplessness, how easy it was for him to transform the feeling into anger and search for someone he could hunt down and hurt and make them _pay_. Misguided as it was, Merlin couldn't help the small shiver that went through him at the thought, at the mere notion that _he_ was the reason why Arthur's gaze was skittering across his face as though searching for something to hold on to.

It made his stomach flutter and his blood heat up, because he _knew_ the feeling, had experienced it countless times with enemy sorcerers and their conjured beasts out for Arthur's life. There'd never been any doubt in Merlin's mind that he would raze all of Albion to the ground without second thought if it meant keeping Arthur safe, and it was humbling to see the same conviction reflected in Arthur's too-bright eyes.

" _No_ ," Merlin replied at last, trying to gentle the word with a whisper, and almost reached up to touch Arthur's cheek when his face fell. He smiled, helplessly, not quite knowing why the sight sent a surge of unbearable tenderness through him, but he was beyond caring either way. He could only let the feeling run its course, watching Arthur's throat work as he swallowed

"Sometimes these things just happen," he said, softly now. Rain was running down his cheeks, his soaked shirt already clinging to his torso, but Merlin couldn't feel the cold, not with Arthur's hands still curled against his chest. "Sometimes magic just spins out of control like this."

"And you're spinning out of control right along with it," Arthur finished when Merlin fell silent. He sounded like he was just starting to recover from a blow to the head, his voice numb and oddly subdued.

Merlin sighed, wishing he could say something to erase that look from Arthur's features, but he also knew lying was out of the question. "Well, yes," he replied, quietly, because just now, with Arthur's gaze fixed on him, it was easy to remember why he didn't want it to be true.

"No," Arthur said, with desperate conviction, and just like that, the spark was back in his eyes, his posture straightening. He shook Merlin once as though to get his point across; rough bark dug into Merlin's back, but it didn't hurt, his wet shirt slicking the friction. "I won't allow it. This _cannot_ happen, Merlin, because I forbid it."

For a moment, Merlin was preoccupied with choking down the inappropriate, hysterical laugh that bubbled up in his throat like bile. "It won't be that bad," he said when he'd gulped in a big breath and felt a little steadier, "and it might not even happen, maybe we'll find the Green Knight before—"

"Not good enough," Arthur interrupted darkly, as if he was berating Merlin on some chore or other that he hadn't completed to the prince's satisfaction. He was disconcertingly pale, and he was glaring at Merlin like he wanted to force him to take back his words through sheer force of will.

"You'll be _fine_ ," Merlin insisted, desperate to reassure him, and clutched Arthur's wrists a little more tightly to quell the trembling of his fingers—or maybe Arthur's hands were shaking too. "I don't think the Green Knight is going to try anything. The forest will keep you away from the patrols, you'll—"

He trailed off when he felt the prince's hands loosen their grip on his shirt, but he didn't back off, as though he wanted to keep Merlin right in this moment with him, pressed against the tree and surprisingly lucid for once. In the dim light, Arthur looked stricken and sick, not seeming to notice the way his hair dripped into his eyes with the unceasing rainfall.

"You're just going to— you won't even fight _back?_ " Arthur asked at last, but while he sounded incredulous, even angry, Merlin could tell that his heart wasn't in it. If they hadn't stood so close together, he knew Arthur would have been pacing on the springy grass by now, gesturing expansively. "What the _hell_ do you think we're supposed to do when you're—"

"There is nothing to fight here," Merlin interrupted, with a stubbornness that he hadn't felt in a long time, although a distant part of his mind suddenly wondered how the conversation had even ended up here, "and you'll be okay, if you just stick together and find the others."

Arthur just stared at him, not moving, and for a moment Merlin wasn't sure if he was even breathing. His head hurt, a dull, lifeless throb in his temples that couldn't be soothed by the coolness of the rain—he knew that there was something he wasn't getting, an integral part of the puzzle that was missing, but he couldn't figure out what it was. With how disconnected he felt from himself, he didn't quite understand why Arthur kept looking at him like that, like Merlin was tearing his world to pieces with just a few careless words.

"I've told you everything I know about the forest, and the knights will protect you," Merlin said, frustrated that none of his efforts to reassure Arthur were working. Now it was Merlin who wanted to shake him, but he couldn't find the strength to do more than tighten his grip around Arthur's wrists.

Rain was dripping into his eyes, running down his neck in tiny rivulets that slipped beneath the collar of his shirt like small fingers. Merlin let out a shaky sigh, not liking the sinking, vaguely desperate feeling that was settling into his stomach. "Look, it doesn't matter if it's just me—"

That finally got through to Arthur, although not quite like Merlin had expected it would. He only caught a glimpse of a flash of cornered fury in his eyes, and then Arthur was crowding him against the tree, his body a long line of heat against his front. Merlin gasped, his hands automatically going from Arthur's wrists to his shoulders to steady himself, his vision spinning with the suddenness of the contact.

"God, Merlin, don't you understand?" Arthur shouted, his voice echoing in the rain-filled quietude of the glade, his eyes helpless and wild and determined. "It _cannot_ be you! It can _never_ be you—," and with that, his hands went from grabbing Merlin's shirt to cupping his face, and Arthur kissed him.

It was clumsy and desperate, Arthur's lips were chapped and wet with rain, and he wasn't so much as cradling Merlin's face as he was holding him still, but Merlin still let out a shocked, helpless noise at the shiver of absolute _heat_ that went through him. It felt like being _burned_ awake, roused from dreamless sleep to the glorious rough feeling of Arthur's teeth catching on his bottom lip before his tongue plunged into his mouth—

There wasn't anything to keep Merlin from groaning, a deep-seated, mindless hunger pulling at him like a puppeteer's string. He clutched at Arthur's shoulders, buried his fingers in his hair in a desperate attempt to get him even closer, grateful that the tree was holding him up because his knees seemed to have dissolved.

Arthur gasped when Merlin licked into his mouth, a throaty, involuntary sound that sent shivers down Merlin's spine. His heart was pounding in a rhythm he could feel all the way down to his toes, and his breath hitched when Arthur pressed impossibly closer, their bodies aligned from chest to knee. Blood was rushing in his ears, and he mindlessly rocked himself forward into the solid bulk of Arthur's body, into the hard thigh that slipped effortlessly between his knees.

Merlin's weight pitched forward on its own accord, his balance lost to the slick, searing heat of Arthur's mouth, and they had already sunk to the ground together when Arthur finally pulled his mouth free. He pressed his forehead to Merlin's, panting out quick breaths into the damp air between them, although Merlin made a quiet sound of protest and tried to pull him back in. Merlin's lips felt swollen, like ripe, bruised fruit, and he wasn't at all surprised by how good it felt to let his own weight grind his hips down into Arthur's lap, against the unmistakable hardness there that mirrored his own erection.

The world spun suddenly, tilting on its axis as Arthur flipped them over, his breath still hot on Merlin's face when he came to rest on top of him, straddling Merlin's hips. He looked like he was trying to regain some measure of control, to _think_ through the fog that had engulfed his mind, and Merlin pawed at him desperately. He tried to grab Arthur's shoulders, but his hands shook too much, his fingers clumsy and white with cold against the red of Arthur's tunic, darkened by rain.

"Arthur, _Arthur_ , please," he choked out, because he felt like he would split in two, like he would be ground to dust by the tension that wound through his belly if Arthur were to try to calm him. He struggled to rock his hips and get some friction on his cock, rub himself off against Arthur's weight, and somehow he didn't even care that Arthur was staring down at him with heavy-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal as he watched Merlin's weak squirming.

He nearly sobbed when it didn't work, when he realized he was too weak to get any leverage under the prince's weight, but then Arthur's hands were on him again, not trying to settle him, but grasping and cupping and pulling at the laces of his breeches. Even the uneven, fleeting brush of his knuckles through the sodden fabric of Merlin's trousers was too much, and Merlin moaned with the overwhelming, hot joy that skittered through him. If his eyes hadn't had shut, he knew they would have been gold.

The ground was humming underneath him, vibrating ever-so-slightly, but for once, the voices of the forest fell on deaf ears. Merlin couldn't hear anything but Arthur's erratic breathing and his own, mingling with the sound of rain and a bitten-off gasp when Arthur roughly pulled his breeches down.

The damp air was cold on his overheated skin, but even that felt good in a way, and Merlin only wrenched his eyes open when nothing else happened. Arthur had paused for a long moment, was just looking down at Merlin's lap with color high on his cheeks and his mouth half open, like he was silently wondering how the hell _that_ had happened. He didn't even seem to notice at first when Merlin started to fumble with his breeches, tugging weakly on the barrier of fabric until he gave up and just pressed the heel of his hand to the hot bulge in Arthur's trousers.

Arthur sucked in a quick breath at the contact, staring at Merlin with wide, stunned eyes, a slow flush creeping up from the neckline of his shirt. The rain had drenched his hair to glinting dark gold, and his lips looked too red in the dim light that trickled into their glade, as though he'd been biting them. Merlin just couldn't help squirming again, not while he was being _stared_ at like that, and he made a helpless noise when his cock was pushed up against Arthur's trousers with the movement, the fabric cold and too rough.

But it seemed to rouse Arthur again, because his hands were a hasty blur of movement over his lap, laces nearly tearing with how hard he pulled at them. Then he suddenly bent forward, his weight blanketing Merlin's body and pushing him deeper into the grass, and Merlin sighed his approval when Arthur's erection dragged against his own, silky and hot and damp. Arthur's breathing was loud and fast in his ear when he pressed his lips to a strained tendon at the side of Merlin's neck, like he'd seen a drop of water there and wanted to taste it before it slipped away into the damp fabric.

Merlin groaned when Arthur experimentally rocked his hips, and let out a sound that would have embarrassed him in any other situation when a hand was suddenly between them, worming its way into Merlin's breeches and wrapping snugly around his cock. He felt like a spark struck from flint, like Arthur had set him ablaze with the rough, slow drag of his fingers, and he keened when Arthur's fingers found the swirl of precome at the slit.

Dimly, Merlin was aware of how hard he was shaking, of the little gasping breaths that were wrung from his throat every time Arthur licked that spot behind his ear. Raw, reckless energy coursed through his veins, pooling at the wildfire in his gut and subsiding into a tingle in his fingertips, and it was so overwhelmingly _good_ that he felt he could cry. It had been so long since his magic hadn't been forced up to the surface by the magnetic pull of the forest. But now it had come to him willingly, coaxed to life by Arthur's callused fingers and his damp breaths into Merlin's neck, and he couldn't do anything but let it flare and fan out beneath his skin, like waves reclaiming a well-known shore.

"Please, please," he nearly sobbed, trying to grab onto some part of Arthur to hold him there, his shoulders, his arms, the long, tense bow of his back, irrationally afraid that Arthur would get up and leave him there, helpless and disheveled on the ground with his cock sticking out of his unfastened breeches. "Please— _Arthur_ —"

"Shh," Arthur whispered in his ear, more harshly than he'd intended, if the tender travel of his free hand across Merlin's cheek was anything to go by. He pulled back for a moment to look at him, though, and Merlin nearly panicked because his eyes were golden, he knew, but he couldn't choke the magic back down, didn't even really _want_ to—except maybe, just maybe for Arthur, because it was for him, because _everything_ was for him, and Merlin didn't know why this shouldn't be his as well.

Arthur's gaze searched his face, barely even stopping at Merlin's eyes, like he was trying to find some sort of permission in the agonized pleasure that Merlin couldn't have wiped from his features if he'd tried. He swallowed, hard, because Arthur looked— tortured, somehow, as though hearing Merlin beg for his touch hurt him. "Yes, Merlin," he said, his voice rough and gravely and, for some reason, close to breaking. " _Yes._ "

There were still doubts in his eyes, beneath the glazed, heated look of overwhelmed longing, and Merlin found himself reaching for him again, mindlessly, because he wanted to wipe them away. He wanted to settle Arthur close to him and never let go, to pull him to this heavy, blissed-out place with him, until he couldn't doubt, couldn't worry, couldn't do anything but breathe with him.

The thought evaporated in a surge of heat when Arthur kissed him again, pulling a long, low groan from Merlin. His eyes squeezed shut as Arthur's hip set up a steady rhythm of grinding down against him, and he couldn't even tell if it was precome or the rain getting them wet but it felt so _good_ , so gloriously, overwhelmingly good. Merlin couldn't stop the sound that clawed its way out of his throat when Arthur's hand wrapped around both of them, calluses catching perfectly on Merlin's cock.

Heat was burning a path down his spine, zapping through his muscles in quick little bursts that he knew meant he was close, and he started to squirm, struggling to match Arthur's movements. He wanted to throw himself into the feeling, fling his very consciousness into being possessed so thoroughly, pinned beneath Arthur's weight and pulled into the cradle of his hips. Dimly, Merlin noticed that his hands had fisted in the back of Arthur's shirt, mindlessly trying to pull him even closer, or simply to find an anchor in the taut arch of his body.

He could feel himself start to come apart at the seams, and squeezed his eyes shut against the burn of magic in them although Arthur wasn't even looking anymore. He'd long since given up on stopping the choked-off, desperate sounds he was making, only focused on the tight, glorious heat that was gathering at the base of his spine. His very nerves hurt with pleasure, set on fire by the slick friction of Arthur's erection against his own and the tight, clumsy grip of his hand. There was no turning back now, no time to spare so much as a thought to what the hell they were even doing. Merlin could only hold on, cling to Arthur's shoulders, and hope that his magic wouldn't set the forest on fire.

Arthur was gasping into his ear, unraveling above him; his wet hair tickled Merlin's cheek when he pushed his forehead to Merlin's collarbone and stilled, except for a few quick, sharp jerks of his hips. He groaned, hand stuttering and cock pulsing as sticky heat spilled between them, and it was enough to send Merlin over the edge as well.

Light burst behind his closed eyelids when he came, his spine a long arch off the ground, and the way his fingernails dug into Arthur's back must have long since become painful. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't even make a sound as a wave of agonized ecstasy tore through him and left his mind completely blank. Bright sparks of energy were zapping in his veins, mingling with the muted, eternal glimmer of the forest's presence and pushing it back to the very edge of his consciousness. Although he was still clutching Arthur close, the muscles in his arms cramping, Merlin couldn't think of quelling the hot, liquid surge of magic that spread in him, and he let it run its course, a gasp finally tearing free from his throat with the shiver that gripped him.

Then a glowing darkness spread through his vision, and Merlin let himself fall, secure under the protective curve of Arthur's spine above him and the warm, rain-wet hand that was still cradling his cheek.

He didn't quite lose consciousness, but he kept his eyes closed, floating in a diffuse, dimly lit sea of sensation. He felt liquid and pliant, the tension in him unwound at last, after so many days had weakened his defenses against the forest's patient, unceasing assault of magic. The air seemed like something alive, coursing in and out of his chest with each breath he took, weighed down with the rain that still poured from the sky. He couldn't recall the last time he'd welcomed it so much, and gratefully let himself revel in the little sparks of sensation that reached his mind with each raindrop that trickled into his hair and soaked his shirt.

Arthur shifted above him, and Merlin thought fuzzily that he was suddenly rather cold without Arthur's weight on top of him. The hand on his cheek tightened and turned his face further into the rain, and Arthur whispered his name, quietly at first and then with more insistence. Every touch felt like ripples in a pond, its surface calm and quiet for the first time in what felt like forever.

Still, Merlin finally cranked his eyes open when Arthur said his name again, this time with a distinctly anxious note. He probably thought Merlin had blacked out—and Merlin suspected that he'd never hear the end of that—and so he turned his head towards Arthur's voice with a great effort, slowly blinking the rain out of his eyes.

When his vision cleared, he thought that Arthur looked paler than usual, bent over Merlin's prone form with a troubled frown, not seeming to notice the way his wet fringe was flopping into his eyes. He jerked back slightly when their gazes met, but Merlin still saw the relief that flickered across his features; without thinking, Merlin brought up a hand to cover Arthur's fingers on his cheek, trying to trap the warmth there.

"I'm okay," he said, curiously unable to raise his voice above a raspy whisper. He attempted a reassuring smile, although he noticed dimly that his face was beginning to feel numb with the cool water that had been sliding down his cheeks. His body didn't feel cold, not just yet, but he thought it would in a minute when his senses had caught up to his mind in its half-conscious, floating place.

Arthur's gaze skittered down and away, and he cleared his throat; he looked thoroughly uncomfortable, like he would have shifted on his feet if he'd been standing. He took a deep breath, and Merlin waited expectantly until the prince apparently thought better of it and didn't speak after all. A blush crept up his neck, silent but telling, and Merlin felt a bit of the glowing feeling seep out of him, confused edginess creeping in through a back door of his mind.

Awareness was slow to trickle back in, spurred on by the way Arthur tried not to look him in the eye while giving him a once-over at the same time, as though to figure out whether Merlin was indeed going to faint anyway. Merlin swallowed hard, suddenly aware of what he must look like, with the rain washing away the sticky puddle of their mingled come on his stomach, his breeches unlaced around his spent cock. Blood rushed to his head, quickly enough to make him feel hot and uncomfortably dizzy.

Arthur watched in silence as Merlin struggled up into a sitting position, his hand twitching like he secretly wanted to reach out and steady him. This time, though, it was Merlin who couldn't quite meet his eyes, but at least Arthur seemed to notice his dazed embarrassment. His hand, which had felt tense and wooden against the side of Merlin's neck, slipped away at last, and Merlin bit down on the protesting sigh that wanted to escape him at the draining loss of Arthur's touch.

There was a tense, uncertain moment when Merlin bent forward to lace up his breeches, and then Arthur stood up and turned away, presumably to give him some privacy. The thought kind of made Merlin want to laugh, because with what they'd just _done_ , any belated stirrings of modesty seemed fairly useless. But still, he appreciated the sentiment, and hurried to rearrange his clothes and shake himself out of the strange daze that his mind had floated off into.

Arthur shuffled around somewhere behind him for a while, and their waterskins were dangling from his shoulder when he edged back into Merlin's vision. With a small twinge of guilt, Merlin remembered that he'd been supposed to fill them, but it didn't matter now because he could see that Arthur had already taken care of that. Water sloshed around in the thick leather bags when Arthur shifted his weight and wiped uselessly at his wet face, looking around at the trees for a moment.

With a visible effort, he met Merlin's gaze, and Merlin probably would have looked away if it hadn't been for the spark of concern behind the guarded vigilance in Arthur's eyes. He stared up at the hand that the prince was holding out for him until Arthur heaved an impatient sigh, beckoning him.

"Merlin, get up," he said, his voice too quiet to sound truly irritable. "You'll catch your death."

For just a moment, Merlin was tempted to point out that Arthur was just as soaked as he was, but then he thought better of it. The prince had just witnessed his manservant going through a weird, post-orgasmic magical catharsis, after Merlin had practically thrown himself at him, and by now Arthur probably deserved a bit of a break.

Willing himself not to flush at the thought, Merlin let Arthur haul him up into a standing position; it could just have been wishful thinking, but for a moment he thought Arthur held on to his hand a little longer than necessary. Then he turned away, though he waited for Merlin to fall in step beside him before he started walking back the way they'd come.

Merlin kept his gaze on the dripping trees and wet bushes around them, resolutely pushing away the uneasiness that had taken root at the back of his mind. Arthur was doing the same next to him, eyes shrouded and jaw set, and Merlin sighed a little, his heart sinking. Although his thoughts were still sluggish, it wasn't like he didn't _understand_ the prince's discomfort—but Merlin simply had no idea what to do to make it go away.

Still, Arthur was walking fairly close to Merlin's side, as though to catch him in case he ended up dizzy and disoriented again. Their shoulders bumped every few steps, each brush of warm skin under wet fabric sending a tingle through Merlin's arm—the first time it happened, Merlin held his breath, half expecting the prince to snap at him for walking too closely.

But although he never so much as looked at him, Arthur didn't pull away either, and Merlin allowed himself to relax a little, reassured in the knowledge that for now, this would have to be enough.

 

  


 

The quickened gait of their horses chased the rainclouds across the sky, and when Arthur woke up to thin sunlight after three days of hard and fast riding, there was a raven watching him.

Still, he had trouble blinking himself fully awake, unable to do more than peek blearily up into the trees and squint against the daylight. His dreams had been a confusing mass of images that had collected in his memory during the past few days—there'd been an odd, imbalanced quality to the world of his sleeping mind, like the gentle sway of a horse under him. They had spent the past few days almost continuously on horseback in an attempt to cover some ground at last, still in the hopes of finding some trace of the others at the heart of the forest.

Several times, Arthur had been sorely tempted to direct their journey away from the winding trails that the forest kept all too graciously laying out for them. Being forced to follow the forest's lead had nagged at him, and frustration had collected like a brooding raincloud at the back of Arthur's mind whenever they found a path mysteriously gone and replaced by one that led in the opposite direction.

But on the other hand, the paths faithfully led them away from anything that sounded like it could be a Mercian patrol. And Arthur wasn't willing to risk an encounter with hostile soldiers just because he was frustrated with the enigmatic, unseen force that directed their journey—he had gritted his teeth and stuck to the trails.

Of course they had found no trace of the others, not even the charred remains of a long since abandoned fire, and the sky had already been dark and rosy with impending nightfall when Arthur had called a halt last night. After setting up camp, the others had collapsed into their bedrolls in exhaustion. They had endured their journey's quickened pace without complaint, and the sight of even Leon falling asleep as soon as he'd drawn a blanket over himself had made Arthur feel guilty enough to take the first watch.

Now, though, his own fatigue had a hard time letting him go. The raven was a dark silhouette against the bright sky, sitting on a low, leaf-covered branch, closer to Arthur than a wild bird should have. It seemed to be watching him, beady eyes reflecting the sunlight; even when Arthur sat up, it kept utterly still save for a twitch of its tail feathers.

"What are _you_ looking at?" Arthur asked before he could stop himself, goaded into speaking by the oddly intelligent gleam in its eyes. A quick glance at his surroundings revealed that the others must have gotten up without waking him quite some time ago—the fire had died down to smoking coals.

The raven cocked its head as though contemplating the question. It shifted slightly when the branch swayed in the morning breeze, but didn't fly off as Arthur expected it to. He untangled his legs from his blanket, keeping his gaze fixed on its black form, and when he finally stood, he was surprised to find just how close the raven was. There were barely a few feet between them, the bird regarding him calmly at eye level from its branch. Arthur stared back, transfixed, barely aware of the uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck, the pommel of his dagger a cool, reassuring weight in his hand.

The moment was shattered when Leon and Lancelot stepped into the clearing with the snap and crackle of breaking twigs, carrying firewood and two dead rabbits. In a flurry of black, the raven took flight, soaring up into the morning sky with a few effortless beats of its wings. Glossy feathers reflected the sunlight for a moment, a hoarse caw echoed through the clearing, and the bird disappeared from view into the treetops.

Arthur stared after it until Leon and Lancelot had crossed the clearing to his side, wishing him a good morning and watching him a bit quizzically. Then he shook himself out of his reverie, hurrying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep and take the rabbits from Lancelot. They had a long morning of riding ahead of them, and they would need their strength for something else than conversing with strange birds. He pushed the thought of the raven away, and unsheathed his dagger to divest the rabbits of their hide.

With breakfast being prepared, Leon went to look for Merlin and Gwaine, who had gone to check up on where they'd left the horses at a nearby pond. Awkwardness trickled in when Arthur was left alone with Lancelot, and felt another twinge of guilt when he realized that everyone else had been up since dawn. They had allowed him to sleep in, despite how much he'd been pushing them to a faster pace during the past few days.

It was all Arthur could do to make stilted conversation with Lancelot as he skinned the rabbits and watched him kindle the fire back to life. The flames were crackling merrily by the time Leon returned with Merlin and Gwaine in tow—Gwaine gave him a cheeky grin and said something about princes and their beauty sleep, but Arthur didn't rise to the bait for now. He just rolled his eyes, handed his dagger over for Merlin to clean, and mentally readied himself for another day of riding.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Arthur was relieved to find the others in higher spirits than the days before—but maybe it was just the weather that improved their mood. They rode at a reasonable pace, stopping briefly for lunch, and the thin sheet of clouds tore completely to let the sunlight through. It warmed them even through the ever-present cover of leaves overhead, and when the shadows started to lengthen, Arthur declared the day's ride over—he wanted to give the others a bit of a reprieve to enjoy the sunlight.

The ground had gotten steeper during the past few days, and was still rising up into a gentle slope. Arthur hoped that they would reach some sort of crest soon, if only for a chance to survey the expanse of ground they had already covered in their search. He didn't quite dare to think of what he would see ahead, though. Although they'd been traveling through the forest for nearly two weeks, there was no way to tell just how badly the forest's disappearing and reappearing paths had turned them around. Maybe he would see an endless expanse of green stretch out in front of him from the hillside, a sprawling, impenetrable maze that they might very well end up never getting out of again.

He shook his head to dispel those thoughts, busying himself with relieving the packhorse of its load. Gwaine had already removed Gryngolet's saddle and was leading him to a little brook that gurgled just a few paces away. The white stallion seemed too thirsty to get up to his usual antics, and just cuffed his rider in the shoulder before lowering his great head to drink. The sight made Arthur smile fleetingly—those two, at least, appeared to have come to a truce, even if it seemed like the only good thing about their journey right now.

Leon and Lancelot had sat down in the soft, springy grass, and Arthur didn't want to rouse them again to collect firewood. They still had time left until nightfall, after all, and the weather looked like it would keep up; the sun still warmed the glade although it was sinking lower in the brilliant blue sky. Arthur unceremoniously dumped their luggage where he stood, and bent down to hobble the packhorse. It nosed curiously at his shoulder when he rose up again, and he sent it off in the general direction of the brook with a pat to its flank.

It was just another thing in the long line of strange occurrences since they'd entered the forest, Arthur mused as he aimlessly crossed the clearing, fingers trailing through the long blades of grass. Wherever they decided to stop for the night, there was always water nearby, whether in a still pond or a rapid mountain stream. He remembered, suddenly, that the raven he'd seen this morning could have been some sort of lookout, sent by the Green Knight to mark their progress. Maybe it told the forest where they were headed, and the woods had rearranged in turn to guide them to this brook.

He ducked under a few low-hanging branches and nearly ended up with his feet in the little river. The water was clear, glinting in the sunlight as it wound its way between slick stones and ancient tree roots. Arthur just watched the brook for a moment, an absent hand on the warm trunk of a tree—if he had stopped to think about it, he would have realized how oddly alive the bark felt under his fingers.

A horse snorted nearby, and Arthur turned just in time to see Llamrei lower her head to drink. Merlin was standing next to her, leaning against her chestnut flank as he watched her drink, absently picking little twigs and burrs out of her mane with nimble fingers. He looked tired, but not quite as exhausted as he had seemed just a couple of days ago—Arthur stepped closer, his feet carrying him forward on their own accord. Merlin was humming under his breath, a strange, sad melody that reminded Arthur of campfires and fairytales.

Twigs snapped beneath the soles of his boots, and the humming stopped when Merlin looked up. Their gazes met, surprise flickering across Merlin's features, and for a moment neither of them seemed to know what to do with the sudden contact. Up close, Arthur noticed that Merlin did look better, although there were shadows beneath his eyes and a tightness in his features that spoke of concealed fatigue.

For lack of anything better to do, Arthur inclined his head at him before sitting down on the ancient gnarled roots that plunged into the ground at the bank. Merlin gave him a fleeting smile before turning back to Llamrei, combing his fingers through her mane to check for large knots or tangles. His movements were slow, like he had to think about them very carefully, and Arthur looked away towards the sunlit clearing. Gwaine was sprawled out in the long grass where Arthur had dropped their luggage earlier, leaning back against the bags. Leon and Lancelot were talking, their quiet voices drifting over to mingle with the sound of running water, although Arthur couldn't understand the words.

The tree's roots groaned warningly when Merlin perched beside him, and although Arthur scooted over to make room, he sat down closely enough for their thighs to press together. Merlin leaned back, but winced away again as soon as his head brushed the rough bark; his weight shifted forward as though he was thinking about getting up.

At last he settled down again with a long sigh, slumping into Arthur like he wanted to bury himself there, his weight a snug warm pressure all along Arthur's side. Heart thudding, Arthur stared down at what little he could see of Merlin's dark head, hair tickling his neck with the way he'd pillowed his face on Arthur's shoulder.

" _Mer_ lin," he whispered when Merlin didn't stir, a little more harshly than he'd intended, because the others were right _there_ , just a few paces away. Granted, Gwaine had his eyes closed and Lancelot and Leon were talking, but if they were to look up—

He gave Merlin a little nudge, trying not to notice how heavy and slack his weight felt, like that of a puppet whose strings had been cut. His manservant huffed out a quiet breath, damp air fanning over his collarbone in a way that made the strangest of shivers crawl down Arthur's spine. But he did move, in a sluggish flail of uncoordinated limbs, and Arthur wondered if he'd dozed off for a few seconds.

Merlin braced a hand on his thigh, and Arthur could feel the weak shudder that went through him as he tried with all his might to push himself off of his shoulder. With a great effort, he succeeded, and just sat there for a moment as if unsure what to do. He was swaying a little, blinking slowly like he was dizzy, and all of a sudden, Arthur fiercely hated whatever inclination had caused him to make Merlin move in the first place.

"Come back," he heard himself say, voice slightly rough, and quickly looked back ahead when Merlin started to turn towards him with dream-like slowness. Arthur could feel his face heat up, and quickly yanked Merlin close again before the feeling of being stared at in surprise could make him even more uncomfortable.

A moment passed in befuddled silence, with Merlin stiff against his side and his elbow in Arthur's ribs. But then Merlin relaxed just when Arthur blew out an annoyed sigh, the tension melting out of him as he plastered himself more securely to Arthur's side. Even his head came down again to rest on Arthur's shoulder, tentative at first.

"You'd just have fallen over into the stream," Arthur pointed out, because he couldn't just not say anything about the way his arm was still slung around Merlin's shoulders and seemed to want to stay there. "And then I'd have had to get my clothes wet rescuing you from drowning in a small mountain creek."

"If you say so," Merlin mumbled, but didn't actually muster up some snappy retort. Arthur frowned, wondering just how off kilter his manservant had to be feeling, if he let an opportunity for a sniping match pass.

But resting with most of his weight pillowed against Arthur seemed to help—or well, at least Merlin wasn't shifting and twitching like he sometimes did at night, keeping Arthur awake no matter how far apart their bedrolls were. Birds chirped overhead, and Llamrei had moved back to the clearing to nibble on the juicy grass, long black tail swishing occasionally to chase away errant flies. It felt oddly peaceful to just _sit_ for once, instead of poring over maps or gathering firewood.

"You know," Arthur said eventually, idly tugging on a bit of grass with his free hand, "manservants are generally expected to stay close to their masters. So why am I the one running after you all the time these days?"

The weight of Merlin's head shifted on his shoulder, and Arthur knew without looking at him that he was smiling, if only feebly. "Maybe you can't get enough of me, sire."

Arthur blinked, stunned into silence by the unexpected retort. He glanced down at Merlin's head, at the dark hair stirred by an evening breeze, and turned the words over in his head, wondering if Merlin had meant them to sound so suggestive. He hadn't expected Merlin to even _mention_ what had happened between them a few days ago, let alone joke about it. But on the other hand, he had also thought Merlin would feel awkward around him, and he clearly wasn't, if his quiet, steady breaths on Arthur's collarbone were anything to go by.

Letting out a long sigh, Arthur decided not to answer—it wouldn't do to let his tense discomfort get the better of him and snap at him. Merlin hadn't been in his right mind back then, and neither had Arthur, for that matter. He'd just been so desperate to find someone he could _punish_ , to hunt down the Green Knight and make him pay for what his magic was doing to Merlin. It wasn't just unraveling the edges of his mind like thread fraying in curious but clumsy fingers—it was slowly but steadily eroding his hope. Merlin had talked to Arthur like he was expecting to _die_ , and while Arthur knew that that wouldn't— _couldn't_ —happen, the mere fact that _Merlin_ thought it would was terrible enough.

And Merlin— Arthur yanked on his fistful of grass, not caring when the blades tore free of the ground and the warm, summery scent of sap filled the air. He'd have to have been blind and deaf to deny Merlin what he'd wanted. He had needed it so badly, needed _Arthur_ with every fiber of his being. Arthur had been helpless against the assault of desperation in Merlin's eyes, in his frantic, grasping, trembling hands and the plush give of wet lips on his.

Rational thought had been pushed to the back of his mind, erased by the uncompromising, heated pull that coursed through Arthur's veins. Through the haze of his own desire, he'd tried to hold on to Merlin, to steady him between his own weight and the damp grass, but it didn't work. Merlin had _begged_ him, every rasped "please" a jolt of aching sympathy in Arthur's gut. And he'd sounded so hopeless, like he'd never trusted that Arthur would indeed give him what he needed so badly. Even now, the mere notion that Merlin had thought he might just walk away and leave him there made Arthur feel ill.

Their tree's shadow deepened as the sun crept down towards the treeline, and Arthur forced those thoughts away, taking a slow, deep breath to steady himself. In the clearing, Leon had taken out a whetstone and was methodically sharpening his daggers. He seemed to glance in their direction every so often, but to Arthur's surprise, it didn't really bother him. Lancelot and Gwaine seemed to doze, slumped back into the grass and against their luggage respectively.

"I wish I could have told him," Merlin suddenly spoke up, a propos of nothing. His voice was a near whisper, so close to Arthur's ear that he could barely contain a surprised flinch. When Arthur looked down, he saw that Merlin had shifted a little, looking more awake than before—puzzled, Arthur followed his gaze to the other side of the clearing.

When he found Merlin was looking at Gwaine, Arthur felt his jaw clench on its own accord—he didn't have to ask what Merlin meant, what strange turns his thoughts had taken to end up _there_ , of all places. He'd sounded sad, not even a tiny bit hopeful, and Arthur nudged him in the ribs, maybe a bit too forcefully.

"You are not going to— to waste away into nothingness, or whatever you think will happen," he said, disgruntled at the sheer effort it took him to keep his voice level. "Stop saying things like that."

Merlin just sighed, but at least he didn't disagree. A little of his weight left Arthur's shoulder as he straightened up, though he didn't seem inclined to move fully away. His eyes were dark and sad, like he was just a second away from actually marching over to Gwaine and revealing his magic to him, and Arthur felt something in his chest tighten with wariness.

A memory rose to the front of his mind, unbidden but unstoppable, worming its way through his defenses. He remembered how Gwaine had shouted at him, that night not too long ago, and if he was honest with himself, Arthur couldn't help but think that Gwaine would _want_ Merlin to tell him as well. He'd made it fairly clear how much he cared about Merlin, and how much he thought Arthur _didn't_.

Being crown prince meant that Arthur took many things for granted, but although he'd always honored every oath of fealty from his knights, Merlin had a way of inspiring loyalty that was entirely his own. Arthur had earned every ounce of trust that his comrades put in him, in battle or court, but the quickly-formed bonds of friendship between Merlin and his knights seemed different. They felt lighter, somehow, only partly forged in battle, and not weighed down with responsibility on either side.

Gwaine's words had made that all too clear. Arthur had bristled when Gwaine had thrown Merlin's loyalty to him back in his face, but even though he'd _wanted_ to get into a right shouting match with him, it hadn't been hard to rein in his temper with the guilt that flared like a wildfire at the back of his mind. Gwaine had a way of turning words into weapons, and he'd made it crystal clear that _he_ was sure who Merlin would run to when he'd finally seen enough of Arthur's cold shoulder.

"Leon knows," Merlin suddenly interrupted, unaware of the turmoil that was running through Arthur's head.

It took Arthur an embarrassingly long moment to refocus his thoughts on the present, and then another to truly understand what Merlin had just said. Then it was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing Merlin by the front of his shirt and shake him back and forth. He darted a quick glance at Leon, but the older knight wasn't even looking in their direction, focused on working some tiny flaw out of his dagger's blade.

" _What?_ " Arthur hissed, heart thumping painfully in his throat. Of course it was too late _now_ , since Merlin had already admitted it, but he still couldn't stop the frantic urgency that rose up in him.

"What?" Merlin asked back, giving Arthur a blank stare until his mind caught up. "No, no, it's not like that," he said hurriedly, pressing more insistently into Arthur's side as though to reassure him. "Leon just told me he'd figured it out on his own, and he's okay with it, really, he would never tell anyone—"

Arthur swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze from Merlin's in spite of how close they suddenly were. He could feel Merlin's uneven breaths on his cheek, and suddenly realized that he still had his other arm around him, palm pressed securely between Merlin's shoulder blades. The moment seemed to lengthen impossibly, until it sunk in that Merlin wasn't actually in any danger, that Leon, wonderfully faithful Leon, wasn't going to rat both of them out as soon as they got back to Camelot.

"Leon knows," Merlin repeated after a pause, his voice quiet but no less insistent. "And now Gwaine is the only one who doesn't. I hate that. He's my friend, I— I _want_ him to know."

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid in front of him," Arthur blurted out, unable to stop the hasty torrent of words. Merlin jerked back slightly, his eyes dark and incredulous, and Arthur found his hands suddenly gripping his shoulders. "He _can't_ know, Merlin, we have no idea what he'll do—"

"Do you honestly think he'd turn me in?" Merlin asked, disbelief coloring his voice, and Arthur gritted his teeth against the urge to shake him until he saw sense. Judging from Merlin's expression, he was thinking more or less the same thing, and he shook his head, barking out a short, sharp laugh. "You think _Gwaine_ would betray me? Come on, Arthur, you don't believe that."

"Maybe not," Arthur conceded, reluctantly, unwilling to give more ground than he had to. He felt suddenly helpless, fleeting thoughts squirming at the back of his mind under the steady, probing look Merlin was fixing him with. "But he might—"

Arthur broke off, and there was a long, resounding silence, only interrupted by the muted sounds of conversation that were drifting their way from the clearing. The others were probably looking their way at last, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to care, trapped as he was by the insistence in Merlin's eyes. Blood was rushing in his ears, his pulse a rapid staccato that he could feel in his palms, and he hadn't realized until now how closely he was leaning into Merlin's personal space, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

"Might what?" Merlin asked at last, his voice carefully hushed. But Arthur couldn't reply, too caught up in imagining the thoughts that must have been running through Merlin's mind just a moment ago. Merlin was Gwaine's friend, he _had_ to know that Gwaine wouldn't push him away, that he would accept his magic as just another part of him.

It had just been a faraway possibility when Gwaine had thrown it into his face that night, but Arthur might very well end up being left then, if Gwaine accepted Merlin's confessions and apologies with open arms. With a sickening lurch, Arthur realized that nothing had changed since the incident a few days ago. He couldn't tie Merlin to his side, couldn't force him to stay—he couldn't hold on to him even with the protective curve of his body over Merlin's own and the quick, damp pants of Merlin's breath against his neck.

He only noticed that Merlin's hands had come up as well when he gave Arthur a gentle shake, jolting him out of his thoughts. He seemed confused, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to speak, not even when Merlin asked once more, "Might _what_ , Arthur?"

Arthur just stared back at him, unable to formulate a coherent reply. Snippets of thoughts were swirling through his head, eluding his stunned grasp—he felt pinned by Merlin's gaze alone, despite the careful weight of his hands, covering his collarbones like they were something precious and breakable.

At last Merlin sighed, obviously realizing that Arthur wouldn't answer. He looked sad somehow, and Arthur saw him glance towards the clearing before he said, hesitantly, "Leon said— he said that you'd eventually be honest with me."

For a moment Arthur was ready to bristle, shaken out of his helpless silence by the words. He wanted to snap at Merlin that he'd had no right to talk to _Leon_ about anything relating to them, but then a memory pushed itself to the front of his mind.

The Green Knight had said the same thing once, at the Beltane feast where Gwaine had challenged him. He'd given Arthur a long, appraising look, a silent assessment of his strength and weaknesses and every sheltered, hidden place within him, and Arthur had barely stopped himself from squirming. The Green Knight had told him to be as honest with himself as he'd been with Gwen—it felt like so long ago in retrospect, although Arthur knew it had just been three weeks.

He swallowed hard against the obstruction in his throat, pushing away the image of the fathomless, unearthing green eyes. Not looking away from Merlin's gaze took a greater effort than Arthur wanted it to, and he exhaled a slow breath, feeling unsteady and strangely heartbroken. "Merlin, you can't just—," he started, and shrugged helplessly. "You have to let me react."

"You've been reacting for the past three months," Merlin pointed out calmly. There was no hint of reproach or accusation in his tone, but he seemed guarded now, like he was bracing himself for a fight.

"Well, you've been hiding for the past three _years_ ," Arthur retorted, unable to stop himself. He knew that this was what Merlin was expecting, because he'd never known Arthur to react with anything else than anger to this particular topic of conversation.

Something like hurt flickered through Merlin's eyes, and although Arthur cursed himself, the spark disappeared as quickly as it had come. He nodded, weighing Arthur's words in his mind, and finally said, with deliberate slowness, "I'm not hiding now."

"Aren't you?" Arthur pressed, although he was well aware that if anyone was hiding, it was him and not his manservant. He stared back at Merlin, refusing to break his gaze, spurred into belligerence by the feeling of impending defeat. This wasn't an argument he could win anymore, no matter how justified he'd felt in the cutting flare of his anger during those first few weeks following Merlin's initial confession.

He'd been so certain that he was right and Merlin was wrong, just like that, the facts as simple as black and white, but now it seemed like the tables had been turned somewhere along the way.

"I'm trying not to," Merlin replied, after a moment of visibly gritting his teeth to keep calm. "It's not as easy as you seem to think it is."

"I don't—," Arthur started, but something flashed in Merlin's gaze, a flare of muted anger, so unlike the hurt from before that Arthur found his mouth snapping shut again on its own accord.

"It was _never_ easy," Merlin insisted, his voice trembling ever-so-slightly. He shook Arthur again, not very hard, although Arthur got the feeling that that was mostly due to his general fatigue. "I wanted to tell you so many times—"

Merlin took a deep, steadying breath, his hands still fisted in Arthur's shirt, but now it seemed like Merlin was mostly holding on to him to steady himself. "You have no idea what it was like to live with that secret," he said, quietly now—there was a suspicious wet shine to his eyes, and Arthur wanted to reached up to curl his hands around Merlin's. "Sometimes I felt like I would just _break_ , shout it out to the entire court, just to get it over with, to have it out in the open—"

Arthur watched helplessly as Merlin fell silent, his throat working as he swallowed. His heart was hammering against his ribcage like it wanted to get out, and Arthur found himself wondering if Merlin could feel it, with his knuckles pressing into his chest like that. Like a long chain of memories, Arthur remembered all the times he'd seen Merlin subdued and pale, looking far too old—all the times he'd resisted Arthur's clumsy attempts to find out what was wrong.

If anyone had asked him back then, Arthur would just have laughed it off. He would have said that Merlin just wasn't good at hiding things, that he was an open book to those who knew how to read him, Arthur himself included. He'd never thought that there might be things in Merlin's life that would simply _force_ him to become an expert in the art of pretending.

Not too long ago, Arthur had still turned all of his betrayed anger against Merlin; but nevertheless, a thought had grown in the back of his mind, sheltered like a newly planted seed under a thick cover of soil. It was the worst kind of treason, the kind of thing that the crown prince of Camelot shouldn't even be allowed to think about, and the mere inkling of what his father would do if he ever caught wind of it made him feel sick. Still, Arthur couldn't help but think that maybe it was not Merlin who deserved his resentment, but the law that had forced him into hiding in the first place.

"It's still true, you know," Merlin suddenly spoke up again, shaking Arthur out of his thoughts for good. His voice was soft, oddly forlorn, like he'd seen the flicker of emotion in Arthur's eyes but misinterpreted it thoroughly. "What I said back at the hunting lodge—I'm not expecting you to go on like nothing happened. But I'd hoped that— with time, you might understand."

For just a moment, Arthur allowed himself to revel in how easy it would be to just get up and leave, shake off Merlin's weak grip and stride away into the fading sunshine of the clearing to where his knights sat, sneaking more or less surreptitious looks in their direction. But no, Arthur thought, and felt his teeth clench even as a strange, fluttery sensation was stirred to life in his chest. It certainly wouldn't be easy, and if he was honest with himself, he knew that walking away was simply not an option anymore.

"I'm trying, Merlin," he bit out instead, the barest edge of irritation creeping into his tone against his will. "This is me trying."

Merlin gave him a long, appraising look, his eyes painfully bright and open. Right now, he truly wasn't hiding—instead he allowed Arthur to see the uncertainty buried beneath the stubborn hope in his gaze, the underlying fear mingled with a trust that shamed him. All along, Merlin had seemed so unshakably certain that Arthur would come around if he was just given enough time, but his small, wobbly smile told another story.

"I can see that," he said at last, softly, like he thought the words might become untrue if he voiced them too loudly. As if in reply, the leaves rustled above as a mighty gust of air rushed through the green canopy, and their tree creaked as ancient bark was bent by the wind.

Arthur swallowed, curiously unable to break Merlin's gaze. He wanted to say something to lighten the mood, some teasing remark that would broaden Merlin's smile and chase the seriousness from his eyes, but he couldn't think of anything to shatter this strange moment. At some point, Merlin's hand had crept up without Arthur noticing, palm nestled warm and snug against his neck as Merlin's fingers tangled in the hair at his nape. Up close, there was no way he could have missed the moment Merlin's eyes flickered down—Arthur's hand slid up Merlin's back on its own accord, but he couldn't think of any good reason why he should stop it, not with Merlin's darkening gaze fixed on his mouth.

The thrum of blood in his ears nearly drowned out the rustle of leaves, but there was another noise that didn't fit in, that unsettled him just slightly as he fought to pull his mind out of the fuzzy, heated place that it had slipped into. He took a deep breath to steady himself and pushed himself back a little, the movement made easier by the first stirrings of wariness in his gut, even though hazy confusion flickered across Merlin's features. But it still took Arthur a long moment to realize that the scraping sounds of Leon sharpening his daggers had stopped.

As if on cue, Merlin looked over his shoulder and sucked in a sharp breath, tensing against him. Arthur started to turn around, but Merlin used his shoulders for leverage to push himself up, wobbling only slightly once he was standing as though the rush of adrenalin had helped him regain his bearings. Slightly annoyed, Arthur put a hand on his shoulder to push past him, and Merlin made an unhappy noise, like he'd purposefully situated himself between Arthur and the clearing, which was just ridiculous if Arthur stopped to think about it.

On the other side of the clearing, Gwaine was rising as well, with a fluid, cat-like motion. Leon and Lancelot were already standing, their backs rigid, and Arthur followed their gazes just in time to see five hooded figures step out of the woods, the long grass parting for their cloaks.

 

  


 

In a way, the arrival of the cloak-wearing group seemed like a godsend, seeing as Gwaine had just been starting to long for a good bar fight or something along those lines, just to get away from the monotony of traveling.

There was no decent tavern around for miles and miles, of course, and his thoughts had been more idle than anything, a way to pass the time. True, watching Merlin and Arthur through his eyelashes had been entertaining as well, but after a while it became clear that they wouldn't drag each other off into the woods for a quick roll in the grass, no matter how many bets Gwaine made with himself.

He'd resorted to remembering the last bar fight he'd been in at the Rising Sun in Camelot—it had been going rather well for him until someone had bodily thrown him through the door. Then things had gone downhill for a while until Percival had arrived. Gwaine smiled at the memory, although it was clouded by an odd sense of nostalgia. He hadn't seen Percival in such a long time that it felt like forever—but well, Elyan was with him, and while Gwaine knew that Elyan wouldn't tease him about girls as much, the thought was comforting.

The sun was warm on his face, and the distant sounds of Lancelot and Leon's hushed conversation could have lulled Gwaine to sleep in any other situation. As it was, he just let his eyes droop half shut and kept glancing over at Merlin and Arthur once in a while, but he found his concern unwarranted—they didn't look like they were arguing that much.

True to form, Leon noticed them first. The murmur of his voice cut off in time with the continuous scraping of the whetstone, and the sudden silence was enough to make Gwaine open his eyes. Then years of battle-honed reflexes kicked in and he jumped to his feet, hand already reaching for his weapons as soon as he saw the group of cloak-wearing people emerge from the forest.

To be fair, they didn't seem all that threatening—Gwaine saw as much when he stepped towards Leon and Lancelot, forming a chain of well-trained, armed knights that the strangers would have to break through if they wanted to get to Arthur. They moved slowly, taking their time in stepping out of the woods—the shortest one had his hood down, and Gwaine stared at him in surprise when he realized just how young he was, barely older than a child.

Then Arthur caught up with them, and Merlin seemed to try to shoulder his way around the prince, looking disgruntled when Arthur didn't budge. One of the men stepped forward and pushed back his hood, bowing wordlessly, and when he straightened up again, Gwaine recognized him.

He'd last seen the man in a dank, dripping cave, and although the flickering torches had cast strange shadows on his features, Gwaine was sure that it was him, that the man who had given them the Cup of Life so many months ago was now standing before them. He looked the same as he had back then, although Gwaine could see that his dark hair was streaked with gray in the fading daylight. His expression was just as grave as he regarded their little party, but he kept his hands loosely clasped before him, seeming to try for a non-threatening position.

"You," Merlin whispered, surprised and uncertain; when Gwaine looked at him, he had stopped his attempts to push past Arthur, and was staring at the man in wonder. The man smiled just slightly, his gaze locking with Merlin's for the briefest of moments, clearly recognizing him as well.

"Well met, Prince Arthur of Camelot," he said, inclining his head at Arthur, whose hold on his dagger had loosened, but not significantly. There was no hint of threat in his tone, but Gwaine certainly didn't blame Arthur for being on his guard. "We bid you greetings and hope that you and your companions have had a safe journey through these parts."

His gaze flickered to Merlin again, and Arthur shifted in response, jaw tightening as he drew himself up to his full height. Gwaine frowned, edging closer to Leon. He didn't like the implications of that at all, considering how strangely out of it Merlin had been ever since they'd entered the forest.

The man gave them a long, silent look before carefully spreading his hands, palms open in a gesture of surrender. "An oath spoken by a druid may not mean much to you," he said, almost sadly, "but I assure you that none of you have anything to fear from us. We come in peace tonight."

"As opposed to when you didn't?" Arthur asked, and Gwaine winced a little at the coldness in his voice. The prince's stance looked deceptively loose, but Gwaine knew that his dagger would be quick to spring to his hand if the man so much as moved too fast.

"When you took the Cup of Life, we could only warn you of the things that might happen," the man—well, druid—replied, his calm tone never wavering. "And you'd do well to blame those that made them happen, instead of those who warned you."

A muscle jumped in Arthur's jaw, but he didn't reply for a long moment, visibly turning the words over in his head. Nobody spoke, and Gwaine couldn't help a brief flash of gratitude at Arthur's ability to keep a clear head in spite of his instinctive wariness. His eyes briefly met Merlin's, who looked just as uneasy as Gwaine felt, although he was clearly trying to hide it.

When Arthur spoke, the dangerous edge was gone from his voice, although he sounded no less distrustful. "For now, I am inclined to believe you," he said, and the druid bowed again, though not as low as before. "Now state your business."

Gwaine blinked, well aware that Arthur was in no position to command the man to do anything, since they were as far from Camelot as they'd ever been. But the druid didn't look angry or even offended—he just nodded, his stoic expression never changing.

"You've been in this forest for almost two weeks," he began, cautiously, like a merchant preparing to advertize his wares to disinterested peasants. "And we could not help but notice that you have crossed the border into Mercia."

He paused to allow the words to sink in. As if in reply, a gentle breeze wafted through the grass around them, stirring the long, dark cloaks. The youngest druid was watching them intently, gaze flickering back and forth between them, and Gwaine frowned, suddenly struck by a startling thought. He still remembered what the innkeeper at Cogeltone had told them, and now it occurred to him that this group of cloak-wearing druids might very well be the mysterious sorcerers who had all but abducted the others.

It was impossible to read Arthur's expression through the shroud of wariness, but Gwaine still found himself staring at him, hoping to steer the prince's thoughts in the same direction by sheer force of will. Arthur just looked back at the druid in silence, though, and finally allowed him to go on with a curt nod.

"I am neither a prince nor a knight," the druid continued, spreading his hands, and Gwaine noticed with some surprise that the gesture seemed to encompass Merlin. "And so I might be wrong, but to me, it seems quite unwise of the crown prince of Camelot and his entourage to intrude so far into Mercian lands."

Arthur's expression darkened; he didn't seem to move, but something in his stance shifted from defensive to slightly threatening. "The trails and the stars have made navigation rather difficult," he answered, his measured tone undermined by the glare he fixed the group of druids with, like it was their fault that the forest's magic had thoroughly turned them around.

The man opened his mouth to reply, but found himself intercepted. "Why do you ask?" Merlin suddenly spoke up; Gwaine saw him shift a little as everyone's attention snapped to him, but he didn't look away from the druid, his eyes gone narrow with suspicion. "Are you here on King Bayard's orders?"

Leon took a step closer, and at Merlin's other side, Lancelot did the same. The cold hilt of his dagger was a comforting weight in Gwaine's palm, but nevertheless, a ripple of tension started up at the base of his spine, tightening his shoulders. If worse came to worse and this derailed into a fight, he knew that they might not even stand a chance against whichever spells the druids would throw at them.

The druid blinked at Merlin for a moment in obvious astonishment, but then he surprised all of them by bowing to Merlin, probably even lower than he had to Arthur. "Certainly not, Emrys," he said, a new note of respect coloring his voice. "We do not affiliate with worldly forces when we can avoid it."

Arthur raised a doubtful eyebrow, but seemed to believe the druid for the moment. Gwaine found his gaze fixed on Merlin, though, surprise warring with curiosity. _Emrys_ —now that he stopped to think about it, that was the same strange name that the Green Knight had used to address Merlin on Beltane eve. But he seemed to be the only one to even have noticed it—none of the others looked particularly surprised to hear it.

"We have, however, been asked for help by an old friend," the druid continued, "someone who would not see you fall into the hands of Mercian soldiers."

He was still watching Merlin carefully, as though trying to gauge the impact of his words, but Merlin just exchanged a puzzled glance with Arthur. Out of the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw him tug absently on his sleeve, an unconscious motion that betrayed his nervousness—maybe Merlin wasn't quite sure what to make of that whole Emrys thing either.

The man kept talking, addressing his next words to Arthur. "Mercia's patrols do not usually pass through these parts, but somebody gave King Bayard a hint. Things are not going well for him in what's left of Escetia, and if he found you, he would be quick to finally declare open war on Camelot."

Arthur's mouth twitched into a brief, grim smile at those news—Gwaine suddenly recalled the countless council meetings Arthur had gotten stuck in before they'd left Camelot. It seemed like such a long time ago now, and it was odd to hear that the skirmishes in Cenred's fallen kingdom had gone on in their absence.

"So much for peace treaties," Arthur muttered, more to himself than to the druid, but then he drew in a deep breath and straightened up, leveling the group with a steely gaze. None of the others had stepped forward to speak yet, but it was clear that Arthur still considered all of them to be potential threats.

"My name is Iseldir," the man said, with another little bow, "and we have been sent to escort you to safety. If you can lay aside your distrust of who and what we are, I promise you that your trust will not be misplaced."

For a moment, Gwaine thought that the words had stirred up Arthur's suspiciousness again, although he couldn't quite tell what had rubbed him the wrong way. But aside from a brief flash of irritation, his gaze remained calm. "The decision is not only mine to make," Arthur replied, and finally let go of the dagger he'd been holding on to. He turned to look at each of them, and for a moment he looked almost amused at the surprise that was doubtlessly written across Gwaine's features. "I shall speak with you alone."

"Of course," the druid said politely, inclining his head in assent. He gestured to the others, and the cloaked group drew back to the treeline to give them some privacy; Gwaine noticed that they had pushed back their hoods some time during their conversation. Aside from the boy, they were all around Iseldir's age—they even wore the same impassive expressions.

It was somewhat astonishing how calm all of them seemed, even faced with a group of Camelot's finest fighters. Or well, on second thought, Gwaine realized that he should probably find it unnerving. He couldn't really see himself cowering in a corner and scared stiff of his opponents' supposed magical prowess, though. Scoffing inwardly, he readily turned his back to the druids as he followed Arthur and the others to the center of the clearing.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Arthur turned around to face them once more, and Gwaine put on a simpering, eager expression. "I can't believe our beloved princess is asking for _advice_ ," he began, but Arthur didn't get a chance to do more than give him an annoyed look.

"I think they're the ones who enchanted Percival and Elyan," Lancelot burst out, interrupting—he looked like he'd been waiting to say this ever since the druids had arrived. His gaze was fixed on Arthur, all but imploring him to think about it and believe him. "The innkeeper said—"

"I know," Arthur replied, cutting Lancelot off with a placating gesture. "You're right, it's probably the same group, but I don't think they would answer if we asked them about the others."

There was a short silence that left Gwaine wondering, a bit surprised at the unusually defensive words. Arthur seemed to think they were outmatched, if he didn't even want to ask about the others—Gwaine breathed out slowly, forcing himself not to bristle and snap back with something scathing. All things considered, Arthur was probably right, and Gwaine hadn't fought enough magical foes in his day to be a good judge of just how outnumbered they were.

"I say we trust them," Leon suddenly spoke up, startling Gwaine out of his musings. He was looking at Arthur too, just as imploringly as Lancelot had—and no matter how much time had passed since he'd become a knight of Camelot, Gwaine thought that a part of him would always find it strange how everyone seemed to look to Arthur in situations like this. What gave him pause, though, was that aside from some initial irritation, it didn't even really bother him.

"They said we'd be safe with them," Leon said when Arthur didn't reply, clearly set on arguing his case. "It's just a hunch, but I don't think they'll lead us into a trap."

A propos of nothing, Gwaine remembered how they had set out to retrieve the Cup of Life—the magical device that had saved Leon's life, and he realized that it could very well have been that group of druids who had healed him. Maybe he didn't quite recognize them, as he'd been more dead than alive during their first encounter, but an innate sense seemed to compel him to trust them anyway.

Judging from Arthur's thoughtful expression, he was thinking the same thing. He nodded at Leon to show him that he was at least considering his input, and turned to Gwaine.

"What?" Gwaine asked when he suddenly found everyone's eyes on him, and then nearly laughed when he realized that they were waiting for his input. It struck him as simply ridiculous that Arthur wanted to hear his thoughts on the whole matter, since he _knew_ that Gwaine wasn't one to pass up a risk that presented itself to him.

Still, Arthur seemed serious enough, and his silent, probing look made Gwaine a little uneasy. "Sure, whatever," he said, shrugging lightly to cover it up. "Let's go with them—it's not like we'd be better of alone, getting even more lost in this forest."

Arthur nodded at him as well, a somber dip of his head, and took a deep, steadying breath before turning to face the last one in their semi-circle. "Merlin?" he inquired, his voice almost soft, like he didn't quite think that his request would be granted.

Merlin looked just as startled as Gwaine had felt at being asked for his opinion, but despite his wide-eyed expression, Gwaine didn't feel like laughing. Merlin stared at Arthur like he was waiting for him to take back his words, color creeping up his neck in a blotchy flush, and suddenly Gwaine got the vivid impression that all of them, Lancelot and Leon and him, were intruding on what should have been a private moment.

He cleared his throat and looked away, fixing his gaze on the tree that Merlin and Arthur had sat down at earlier. Glimmers of bright fur caught his attention through the shroud of swaying boughs—Gryngolet seemed to have gone down to the brook again for another drink of the clear, cold water. Still, what little Gwaine could see of the stallion looked more gray than white in the fading daylight, and he found himself hoping that the druids would guide them to shelter before nightfall.

"I don't think they would hurt us," Merlin said at last, after a long moment of silence. His words were quiet, tentative, like he expected to be interrupted any second, but nobody spoke. Gwaine allowed his gaze to return to Merlin, fairly sure that the most awkward moment was over. "I mean," Merlin continued, encouraged by the silence, "we're stuck here as it is, we could as well go with them. There's no reason to believe they're lying."

Arthur looked at Lancelot once more, but although his tanned brow was still furrowed in thought, Lancelot met his eyes without hesitation. "If Merlin says it's alright, I believe him," he said, his tone quiet yet decisive. Merlin gave him a slightly abashed smile—the color hadn't quite faded from his cheeks yet, and he seemed more relieved than anything that they had heard him out.

"Then we'll go with them," Arthur said, an air of finality in his voice. "But be on your guard, all of you, and keep your eyes open."

Leon let out a slow breath, relaxing visibly, and Gwaine hid a quick smile at the look of relief on his face. He couldn't help but feel relieved too, if only because they'd come to a decision—he wasn't that worried about the druids' motivations, not really, but rather curious where they would end up taking them.

They went back to the druids, and Arthur told them in a measured voice that they would come with them as soon as they had collected their horses and luggage. Iseldir seemed relieved as well, and it melted away a little more of the halfhearted distrust that simmered at the back of Gwaine's mind. They fanned out across the clearing to catch the horses again, the druids courteously standing back at the treeline. Lancelot disappeared briefly near the brook and came back leading Llamrei and his own horse, and Merlin made his way over to their luggage with the packhorse trailing behind him.

The druids talked quietly among themselves, but Gwaine noticed the boy staring at him with wide, curious eyes as he wrestled with Gryngolet's reins. His attempt at a charming smile fell flat when one big hoof landed on his foot, his expression twisting into a snarl of pain as he shoved at Gryngolet's shoulder as hard as he could. The stallion snorted but backed off, tossing his mane one more time before finally following Gwaine back to where he'd deposited his saddle earlier.

Still, when they were ready, Gwaine wondered sourly why he'd even gone through all that hassle to saddle Gryngolet again, because Arthur made no move to mount Llamrei, and a quick pointed look made sure that none of the others thought of climbing up into their saddles either. Sure, courtesy dictated that they had to walk just like the druids, but it had been a long day and he'd been looking forward to getting carried to their new destination.

Merlin was slowly walking up to them, frowning down at the mess of reins in his hands—he was trying to sort out which belonged to his horse and which to the packhorse, but neither animal seemed to mind his confusion. They followed him anyway, curiously nosing at his hair and tunic by turns.

He didn't notice Iseldir until he was practically blocking Merlin's way, and then he started visibly, flinching back a little although Iseldir offered him an apologetic smile for having surprised him. Pushed by the packhorse's insistent bump into his back, Merlin stumbled and turned a little until his back was blocking Gwaine's view, but Gwaine still saw Iseldir pull something from a hidden pocket in his coat.

Annoyed, Gwaine craned his neck, but he couldn't see what the druid was now holding out to Merlin. The set of Merlin's shoulders looked startled and wary, and he was tilting his head to look down at Iseldir's hands. A breeze stirred the druid's hair as he gave Merlin a barely perceptible nod and the hint of a smile. "This will ease your passage, Emrys," he said, so quietly that Gwaine had to strain his ears to understand the words.

A moment passed in tense silence, but then Merlin must have taken whatever Iseldir had been offering him, because when the druid stepped back again, his hands were empty. Merlin seemed lost in thought, but apparently not lost enough not to do some quick thinking and hide the gift. He reached up with equally empty hands for a distracted pat of his horse's neck, and then Lancelot caught up with him on his other side, saying something that Gwaine didn't quite catch but that made Merlin smile.

The druids led them towards a shady trail through the woods, broader than any of those they had ever set foot on on their own. Merlin didn't even have to tie the packhorse's reins to his saddle—he just walked between the two horses. Gryngolet seemed alert but not set on breaking Gwaine's toes anymore, and so he felt it was safe to catch up to Arthur and occupy the other half of the path next to him and Llamrei.

For a while they walked in silence as the woods got darker around them. The fading sunlight still gilded the canopy of leaves and trickled down to the mossy trail, but the air was cooling slowly, and although it had been rather warm the past few nights, Gwaine found himself hoping that they'd reach the druids' abode soon.

The boy, at least, seemed thrilled at his new traveling companions. He kept darting back and forth between the horses, scrutinizing each of them—he'd probably never seen knights before, and although they were not even in full armor, his excitement was understandable. Gwaine gave him a lopsided smile as the boy quickened his pace to keep up with the long strides of the horses. Predictably, he seemed to have decided that Arthur was the most fascinating of them, and he spent a long moment just staring up at him in awed silence.

"Your horse is really big," he told Arthur at last—judging from the breathless eagerness in his tone, he had spent the past few minutes dredging up his courage to say that. He tripped over a tree root, too busy staring at Arthur to watch his path. "It's the biggest horse I've ever seen! My pony is a lot smaller—"

"Caedmon," Iseldir admonished from the front, a gentle warning in his tone, and a brief smile flickered across Arthur's features when the boy stuck out his tongue at the older druid's back. For a moment it seemed like Arthur would reply, probably to say something about the time when he hadn't been allowed to ride fully-grown horses either, but then he remained silent.

Gwaine frowned, placing an idle hand on Gryngolet's neck as he watched Arthur. He looked troubled, somehow, a frown etched deep between his eyebrows, and he appeared to avoid the boy's eyes. Gwaine recognized that look, the inward gaze and the squaring of his shoulders—it seemed like Arthur was bracing himself for something unpleasant.

Finally, when Gwaine had just begun to entertain vague plans of lightening the mood, Arthur tugged on Llamrei's bridle to slow her pace a little. He looked down at the boy, apparently deciding to face whatever uneasy thoughts were keeping him occupied, and drew in a deep breath.

"Caedmon," he began, cautiously, testing the name. The boy nodded, a little puzzled at Arthur's solemn tone, but a moment later everything fell into place for Gwaine.

"When we first met," Arthur said, slowly, choosing the words with careful precision despite the discomfort that lurked just out of reach in his tone, "I— threatened you. I held a sword to your throat."

Caedmon blinked, clearly taken aback, but didn't seem all that troubled at the recollection of that run-in. The memory rushed to the front of Gwaine's mind then, as sharply outlined as if it had happened just yesterday. He remembered the hasty urgency of their journey, their nerves thoroughly frazzled when they'd finally reached the druids' cave.

He recognized the boy now, too, although he'd just seen him by firelight before. Back then, Gwaine had been slightly appalled when Arthur had essentially used the boy's life as a bargaining chip for the Cup of Life, but he'd never noticed that the whole thing had bothered Arthur so much until now.

"That was unforgivable," Arthur continued after a moment. Gwaine could tell that it was a struggle not to look away from Caedmon's wide-eyed, slightly astonished gaze, but Arthur seemed determined to do this right. He wasn't even citing his father's strict orders as an excuse. "But I— I am sorry, if that means anything to you."

At the front of their party, the druids were silent, but Gwaine got the feeling that they were listening intently. Llamrei seemed to catch on to her master's discomfort, because she lightly cuffed him in the shoulder as though to tell him that everything would be fine. Caedmon just blinked up at Arthur for a moment, and then sneaked a glance at the druids like he rather wanted to ask them what to reply to that.

"That's strange," he said at last, thoughtfully. Arthur visibly squared his shoulders, determined to accept whatever Caedmon would say next, but he just gave him a hesitant smile. "I've never had a king apologize to me before."

Behind Gwaine, Leon and Lancelot's quiet conversation trailed off into silence—they'd probably just pretended to talk anyway, to give their prince some privacy. Arthur stared down at the boy, thoroughly taken aback; his gaze flickered towards the druids as well, but although he was clearly listening, Iseldir kept his back turned to them.

Finally, when it became clear that no one was going to say anything, Arthur sighed, and rubbed a tired hand across his face. "I'm not king yet," he replied, and Gwaine found himself grinning when he remembered just how often Arthur had said that already during this journey.

"But I forgive you," Caedmon said, in the determined tone of someone coming to an important decision; still, it was clear that he'd chosen not to listen to Arthur when he added, almost smugly, "your majesty."

Arthur sighed again, but this time he didn't protest. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine caught sight of Leon's thoughtful, almost proud expression, and while all he could see of Merlin was his back, he was sure that he was smiling.

As for Gwaine himself, he was rather surprised at how much he was beginning to like the idea of a crown on Arthur's golden hair—a real crown, not the circlet he wore at feasts. It had begun innocently enough; at first he had just found that he didn't mind following Arthur around all that much. Then he'd been thrilled at what a worthy opponent Arthur made in the training grounds, and before Gwaine's mind could catch up with itself, he was suddenly imagining Arthur as his king.

It should have felt strange, it should have clashed violently with everything he had believed in for years, but instead Gwaine found himself looking forward to it. Or well, at least it didn't make him want to run all the way back to Caerleon—at any rate, he knew that Camelot would not get boring with Arthur on its throne. And as long as Merlin was there to let the hot air out of Arthur's head whenever the need arose, Gwaine figured that having that head crowned was an entertaining idea indeed.


	8. Derry, Derry Down

In retrospect, Merlin didn't remember much of that first night.

It had been dark when they'd arrived, and he had seen little of their destination—just a twine-covered wall of ancient masonry, a high doorway and endless dark flights of stairs. The druids had led them into the house—or well, _mansion_ , since what Merlin had seen of the house had been huge. As wary as they had been of the druids before, strangely enough, no one had objected when they'd all entered the mansion together, not even Arthur. Or maybe they'd just all been exhausted from the long day, excited at the prospect of sleeping in an actual bed again for the first time in weeks.

But if he stopped to think about it, Merlin doubted that anyone had been as tired as him. Iseldir had approached him in the clearing, and to Merlin's surprise he'd pressed a shimmering leaf of ivy into his palm, promising that it would ease the rest of the journey.

At first he hadn't noticed anything amiss beyond the cool, barely discernible weight of the leaf against his chest where he'd tucked it into his tunic. But little by little, he became aware of a curious silence around him, a lack of noise that seemed all the louder because he'd gotten so used to incessant sound before. Sure, he'd still heard the wind and the voices of the others, but it had taken him a few long minutes to realize that he could no longer hear the eternal hum of the forest's magic.

The leaf must have been enchanted, and although Arthur probably would have yelled at him for a fortnight if he'd known that Merlin had just taken it without poking and prodding at it first, Merlin didn't care. All he knew was that he could finally let go of all the exhausted tension he'd gathered close to himself over the past few weeks in a desperate attempt to withstand the unceasing magical assault to his senses. It was like the leaf spun a safe cocoon around him, a place where the magic could not touch him, where his senses were his own.

Fatigue engulfed him like a wave crashing over his head, as if the mere fact that he was finally able to _relax_ was enough to remind him of how many nights of restless sleep he'd had lately. Still, Merlin had hung back when they'd been led to what he assumed was the mansion's guest wing. There were things he'd had time to think about, things he needed to discuss with Iseldir, because he had the vague feeling that it would be his last chance to consult another magic user on any of the strange things that kept happening around them.

"Wait," he'd said to Iseldir, tentatively, as the older druid pushed past him. Arthur caught his eye over his shoulder, but Merlin waved him on, trying to encompass without words that he just needed a moment. Miraculously, both of them had cooperated—Arthur raised his eyebrows but continued to follow Caedmon up the stairs, and Iseldir had turned around to face Merlin, his features a polite mask of curiosity.

The footsteps of the others grew quieter, echoing through the large stairwell although they were muffled by the thick carpet that covered each step. For a long moment, the two of them had just looked at each other, and Merlin had noticed that Iseldir looked older in the moonlight, his hair gleaming silver.

"Back at the clearing, you said that someone gave Bayard a hint that we'd be here," Merlin stated at last, keeping his words straightforward. He didn't know if the druid would even answer his questions, but he couldn't muster up the energy to beat around the bush then.

Iseldir inclined his head in acknowledgement. "You are safe here," he assured him, his voice pitched low and soothing. "This place cannot be sought, it can only be found. Those Mercian patrols could walk right past these walls and see only trees and bushes."

"That's not what I meant." Merlin sighed, and rubbed a tired hand through his hair. His face felt oddly stiff, like it had been locked in the same expression for too long and his muscles were only just beginning to loosen. "Who was it? Who ratted us out to Bayard?"

A short silence had fallen then, but Merlin hadn't fidgeted or looked away under the sudden intense scrutiny of the older druid. He'd only met the man once before, but he was probably the one who had saved Leon's life back then, and Merlin had no reason not to trust him. More than that, even in his exhaustion, he was sure that Iseldir didn't mean them any harm, and would never do anything to actively sabotage their quest.

"You know the answer to that," Iseldir said at last, quietly, like it pained him to see Merlin's face fall at that.

"Maybe I do," he admitted, not caring to disguise the edge of futile hope that crept into his tone. "But I'm hoping I might be wrong."

Iseldir's features hardened—not much, but after the smooth impassiveness from before, it seemed all the more disapproving. "Even after everything the Lady Morgana has done to destroy your prince's future?"

"So it _was_ her," Merlin muttered, more to himself than to the druid—in a way, he didn't even know why he was surprised. The astonishment was dulled by his tiredness and the odd feeling that everything had been leading up to this, that every path they had taken since the beginning of their journey had inevitably ended up there.

He turned away from Iseldir's searching gaze, rubbing at his tired eyes. The puzzle pieces were slowly but surely falling into place, and it was all he could do to try and keep up with the formation of a new picture. All along, Merlin had hoped that it wouldn't come to this—he'd hoped that he would eventually find out that Morgana hadn't tried to lure them into Mercia all along. He'd been counting on the Green Knight to have been the driving force that directed their journey, not another facet of Morgana's plans.

Squeezing the bridge of his nose did nothing to alleviate his oncoming headache, and so Merlin turned around again with a heavy sigh, barely noticing the note of concern that had sneaked into Iseldir's gaze. "Somebody told me that it was the Green Knight who led us here—that he needs my help to break free of her spell."

"He did, and he does," the druid confirmed, seeming relieved that he could tell Merlin some good news as well. "She underestimated him, and he used what little leeway he has left to get you here. Unfortunately, that was also the Lady Morgana's plan."

"I just don't get it," Merlin admitted, spreading his hands in a gesture of surrender. Confessing it made him feel oddly self-conscious, since he still remembered the odd reverence in the druid's tone when he had first called him Emrys all those months ago at the cave. "Does she want to get us all killed by Bayard's soldiers? Or are we just part of some master plan to lure Bayard into breaking the peace treaty once and for all?"

Iseldir hesitated for so long that Merlin begun to think that he hadn't heard him. Feeble light spilled over his shoulders, and it made what little Merlin could see of his features look strangely old, but at least he didn't seem surprised. "We do not know what her intentions are," he finally answered, choosing his words carefully. "But if you can free the Green Knight, you will have a powerful ally."

Merlin rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to get them to stop itching—he could feel his eyelids droop, his body demanding him to let it go and just go to sleep for tonight. But he didn't want to end this conversation now, no matter how tired he was. "It's just frustrating, you know," he said, not bothering to disguise the forlorn hopelessness that crept into his voice. "You—all of you, your druids and the Green Knight and even the dragon... you think you _know_ me, you think you know what I can do, just because of some prophecies you've heard of, but I— most of the time even _I_ don't know what I can and can't do. And _this_ —," he waved an idle hand, encompassing the mansion and the forest and the entire mess with Mercia and the Green Knight with his gesture. "I have no idea what to do about this. I don't even know how to free him."

In retrospect, Merlin didn't think he would ever forget the silent, steady look that the druid had fixed him with. Iseldir had just gazed at him in silence, a small half-smile on his face as though he'd been hoping for just those words, although why he would ever hope for that, Merlin didn't know. Feeling tired and wrung out, he let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable, but at last, Iseldir cleared his throat and looked away.

"We have been watching her," he said, his voice hesitant and thoughtful. Merlin blinked, startled out of his own thoughts by the sudden turn in the conversation, and it took him a second to understand that Iseldir was talking about Morgana again. "And we hoped that she would never end up where she is now, half mad and vengeful with grief." He sighed, suddenly looking just as lost as Merlin had felt a moment ago "I am sad for her, but I know of nothing that anyone could have done to stop her plight."

Merlin swallowed, trying to push away the memory of when he'd last seen Morgana, her golden eyes terrified and broken as she'd screamed out her despair through the chunks of rock falling from the ceiling. "Why do you care?" he asked, perhaps a bit more sharply than would have been polite. "You don't even know her."

Iseldir just gave him a blank, uncomprehending look, as though he thought Merlin should have reached that conclusion on his own. "She helped Mordred."

Hearing the name was so unexpected that Merlin almost flinched back, and remembered just in time that he was in a stairwell and shouldn't just take a surprised step backwards. Still, he had to steady himself with a hand against the rough stone wall, and just gaped at him for a moment. "You know Mordred?"

Smiling just slightly, Iseldir tilted his head in what was neither confirmation nor denial, wearing the same enigmatic, thoughtful expression that Merlin had seen earlier, and said, quite simply, "I know that your king saved him."

"My— oh," Merlin muttered when he realized that the druid was talking about Arthur. That day seemed so long ago now, especially since it didn't appear to matter to Mordred anymore that once upon a time, they had not been enemies. Merlin still remembered the stunned, unbridled hatred in his eyes when they'd last met, the echoing chill of a feeling too deep to bear for someone so young. _I will not forget this, Emrys_ , he'd said, and back then it had seemed like Mordred had also forgotten that Arthur had once helped to save his life.

"You should not trouble yourself with thoughts of things long past," Iseldir said, as if he'd guessed the direction that Merlin's thoughts had taken. This time he sounded almost stern, in a way that reminded Merlin of Gaius. "You cannot change them, but you _can_ change the present."

"Yeah, well, if only I knew _how_ ," Merlin muttered, rubbing his fingers across his forehead in an effort to erase the dull throbbing ache that had settled there. It was probably nothing that a good night's sleep wouldn't cure, but right then, he just felt like a myriad of confusing thoughts were pounding against his skull from the inside, wanting to be let out.

Iseldir had been silent for a long moment, studying Merlin as though trying to gauge the impact of his next words. Merlin held his gaze, and thought suddenly that his earlier impression had been wrong—the druid didn't look old so much as ageless. The druid tipped his head down lightly in the barest hint of a respectful nod, and said, quietly, "You're the most powerful sorcerer I have ever had the honor of meeting, but you are also just a man—a man who wants to protect what is dear to him. Trust in that, Emrys."

Merlin had opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to think of something to reply—how _could_ he trust himself with anything, when the only thing keeping them from a run-in with Mercian soldiers was the forest's magic, and doom was still looming unresolved above Gwaine's head in the shape of a monstrous axe? Besides, he had spent the past two weeks not really protecting anyone, what with how out of it he'd been, disoriented and near-delirious with magic.

But the druid had seemed to guess at his thoughts again, because he stepped aside and reached out a hand to him, a polite gesture to usher him further up the stairs and to whichever chamber had been prepared for him. The thought of a soft mattress and plush blankets had convinced Merlin against his own better judgement, and so he'd followed Iseldir's lead with a sigh.

After that, his memories went blurry. An endless flight of stairs later, a door had opened to guide Merlin into a large candlelit chamber, but he'd barely noticed the high ceiling and the ornate curtains obscuring the windows. Even the large, comfortable bed had looked out of focus to his tired eyes, and the last thing he remembered was letting himself fall forward onto the mattress, asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

When he woke up the next morning, he felt as well-rested as he hadn't in ages, and as Merlin drowsed through the first lazy stages of waking, he realized that it wasn't just because of the large, comfortable bed. It was also because of the ivy leaf that Iseldir had given him, a cool, smooth weight pressed to his chest beneath his tunic. It had done its job well the past night, keeping him safe and sane, guarding his dreams.

He flinched when there was a knock on the door, and cranked his lids open with some difficulty, realizing that that had probably been the sound to wake him in the first place. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the cozy, reddish light that spilled in through the windows, but once they did, he realized that it must be well past sunrise already, if the room was that bright despite the curtains.

"Um— yes?" he called in the general direction of the door, the words scratchy with sleep. The blankets rustled as he sat up, slipping down to his waist as he sat up, and for a moment Merlin thought he'd felt the mattress dip under a sleepy weight that was not his own.

"I bid you good morning, sirs," a voice answered from the other side of the door, sounding polite and not at all surprised at Merlin's sleepy tone. It was probably a servant, Merlin thought; there was no way such a huge guest room would belong to anyone but a rich lord. "Breakfast is served in the dining hall downstairs, and you are welcome to join the others as soon as you're ready."

"I'll be right up, thank you," Merlin said, the last of his sleepiness evaporating in a flutter of discomfort.

The faint sounds of footsteps echoed through the hallway outside as the servant departed, probably to tell his master that Merlin had woken up at last, and he let himself slump back against the headboard with an annoyed groan. He had _slept in_ , and while that wouldn't have bothered him much back in Camelot, he couldn't help but worry what their mysterious host might think of him now.

He sighed deeply as he rolled over, and almost jerked back in shock when he suddenly came face to face with Arthur.

Merlin froze, his heart suddenly beating close to his throat—so he hadn't imagined that dip of the mattress after all. Fleetingly, he wondered for how long Arthur had been awake, if he'd heard the servant as well or if he'd woken up before that, confused and disoriented when he'd found Merlin in his bed.

But Arthur wasn't snapping at him to get out just yet. He just looked at Merlin, his features shuttered into a carefully neutral expression, and finally he said in a measured voice, "You know, the original plan was for you to sleep in the other bed."

His hair was mussed from sleep, Merlin noticed distractedly, but he seemed as wide awake as he'd ever been, waiting for Merlin's answer with uncharacteristic patience. He hadn't even seen Arthur the night before—for all he knew, Arthur could already have settled down to sleep when Merlin flopped into bed beside him. He hadn't even had the strength to change into his loose night clothes—the last of his energy had dissipated as soon as his head hit the pillow.

"Sorry?" he tried, his voice coming out too high. There was a pensive look in Arthur's eyes that Merlin didn't think he'd ever seen before, and it made his heart flop around oddly in his chest. He looked like he would have been content to gaze at Merlin all morning if Merlin hadn't woken up.

The single word broke the spell, though, because Arthur cleared his throat and looked away to the windows for a moment. "It's alright," he said, gruffly. "You were pretty dead on your feet last night."

He sat up then, with an abruptness that seemed like he'd waited to do that for a long time. The mattress dipped slightly, and Merlin inched back a little when Arthur took a moment to look around the room—the situation was unsettling enough without being close enough to Arthur to feel his body heat.

When Arthur glanced back at him, the thoughtfulness was gone from his eyes, and he gave Merlin an appraising look. "How do you feel?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral, although Merlin saw the way his fingers were fumbling with the covers, smoothing out the same crease again and again.

"Good," Merlin mumbled with a small shrug. He felt strangely unsettled, heat rising to his face under Arthur's intense scrutiny, and he hoped that the curtains dimmed the light enough to hide his blush. "I'm— I'm fine."

"And what about the—," Arthur began, but broke off with a frown like he couldn't quite figure out the best way to say what was on his mind. He settled for a vague gesture that seemed to encompass the room, and Merlin realized that he was referring to the forest's magic.

"It's okay," Merlin assured him, and sat up hastily to prove it. He didn't want Arthur to worry, not now when it felt like the prince had spent the past two weeks doing nothing but that. Secretly pleased when the sudden motion didn't even make him dizzy, Merlin attempted a reassuring smile. "I can't feel it here. It's like the house is shielding me."

He briefly thought about mentioning the leaf of ivy that Iseldir had given him, but decided against it after a moment. This was enough for Arthur to take in for now, and anyway, Merlin wasn't quite ready for a shouting match about accepting potentially dangerous magical items from strangers.

Arthur gave him a long, searching look, but finally nodded. "Good," he said, his voice a little rough, and abruptly turned away to step out of bed.

Merlin blinked at his back for a moment, confused by the defensive gesture. But then again, it probably made Arthur uncomfortable to have been caught worrying, or maybe he was just embarrassed at having spent the night in bed with him. The oddest things pricked Arthur's pride sometimes, and Merlin fought the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't know how this was more embarrassing than having stuck his hand down Merlin's trousers the other day, but right now, he didn't feel like bickering with Arthur. It didn't feel like a safe topic to tease him about.

With a sigh, Merlin stood as well, wincing as the cold stone floor chilled the soles of his feet. Arthur wasn't the only one who felt strangely uneasy this morning, after all, and he decided to just let the matter rest for now. Depending on how long they'd stay here, there would be plenty of opportunities for Arthur to shout at him or ignore Merlin again, or whatever it was that he would need to do to regain his balance.

"We should probably get dressed for breakfast," Merlin offered, his voice sounding too loud in the complete silence of the room. Arthur made an affirmative noise without turning around, but the jibe that Merlin had expected to hear about his sleeping habits didn't come, and he felt his heart sink a little before he pushed the feeling away.

Their luggage had been put on a large table in the middle of the room, and Merlin walked towards it, heaving a mental sigh of relief at the prospect of changing out of his travel-worn, sleep-rumpled clothes. They would need to make themselves presentable for the lord of the mansion, if only as a basic thank-you for letting them stay at his house.

The thought felt odd and unwieldy in his head, and Merlin sighed to get rid of some of his mounting trepidation. He hadn't gotten the chance to truly think about it yet, but it did seem rather strange that their host had just let them into his home last night without so much as coming to meet them. Maybe the druids had sent word ahead that they were bringing him guests, but still, it seemed dangerously careless of him to take in a bunch of well-armed strangers.

It was only when Merlin had already opened his mouth that he realized he'd been about to voice that thought to Arthur. Words stuck uselessly in his throat, and it was harder than it should have been to push them down again, but Merlin didn't allow them to slip out. It didn't seem like the right time to voice his concerns, and he didn't want to influence Arthur's judgement when they finally met their host. And Arthur probably knew about all the half-formed worries and suspicions that were swirling through Merlin's mind anyway.

Still, he found himself pivoting on his heel, turning around just in time to see Arthur tug his tunic over his head. His back muscles rippled in the warm, curtain-filtered sunlight, and Merlin tore his gaze away from where it wanted to linger on the shadowed curve of Arthur's spine. He turned his back to Arthur again, his mouth gone curiously dry, and bent down to rummage through the bags in search of a clean shirt.

 

 

The last people that Gwaine had expected to see when he entered the dining hall were Percival and Elyan, sitting on one end of the long oaken table and talking quietly among themselves.

He stood rooted to the spot in the doorway for a moment, barely noticing that the table was laden with a breakfast as rich as he hadn't seen since they'd left Camelot. Bowls of fruit were placed between thick, still-steaming loaves of bread, smoked ham and squares of cheese completing the ensemble, but right then, Gwaine didn't pay attention to his rumbling stomach. He could only stare in incomprehension and resist the urge to rub his eyes or pinch his arm to check if he was still asleep.

Then Elyan looked up and saw him, his eyes going wide as he interrupted Percival with an incredulous, " _Gwaine?_ " Percival broke off and turned to stare at him as well, and by then Gwaine had recovered his wits enough to let a stunned smile of relief break out across his face and cover the distance between them in three big strides.

Percival was the first to reach him, grinning from ear to ear as he pounded Gwaine on the back and nearly crushed his ribs in a brief hug. Then Elyan was there as well, looking just as incredulous as Gwaine felt as he seized his shoulders and looked him up and down as though to reassure himself that Gwaine was really there.

"What are you _doing_ here?" he exclaimed, nearly at the same time as Percival, and they shared a stupefied grin that seemed to last longer than necessary. Just a moment ago, Gwaine had felt hungry and still a bit sleepy, but now it seemed like he'd been kicked awake, in the best way possible. He clapped both of them on the shoulder once more, just because they were right _there_ instead of enchanted out of their minds in some dank cave.

"We thought you'd gotten abducted by a group of evil sorcerers," Gwaine accused, playfully, "and instead you're sitting here preparing to stuff your faces with breakfast—"

"Yeah, about that—," Elyan began, his smile dimming a little to make room for a more serious expression. But then the door opened for the second time to admit Leon and Lancelot, and the whole cycle of stunned surprise morphing into relief and manly back-slapping started all over again.

Gwaine hung back a bit, although he couldn't help the grin that seemed permanently etched across his features. The astonishment was melting into a relief that was so profound that he could feel his shoulders drop a little. It had been a constant nagging at the back of his mind, the thought of where the others might have ended up. And as preoccupied as he'd been with everything that had befallen them on their journey, Gwaine hadn't even really noticed it until now that it was gone.

"How did you even get here?" Leon exclaimed through the general noise of four knights reuniting after a long time spent apart without knowing whether either group was safe. He sounded just as incredulously relieved as Gwaine felt, his hand clasped firmly around Percival's arm as though he wanted to make sure that the other knight was really there.

"I could ask you the same thing," Percival retorted, disbelief still evident in his elated smile. But before he could continue, there was a clatter as the door opened for the third time to admit Merlin and Arthur, their jaws dropping simultaneously as they entered the room side by side.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes later, but Gwaine felt like an eternity had passed when they finally sat down around the table. He was dimly aware of his mouth watering as the scents of the rich breakfast reached his nose, but nobody else was reaching for the food and so he refrained as well. It just felt so good to glance across the table and see Percival's familiar hulk opposite of him, Elyan's dark, perceptive gaze lingering on every one of them like he was still marveling at the fact that they had found each other again.

At the end of the table, Arthur leaned back in his chair, looking for all the world like a king surveying his newly appointed councilmen. Gwaine could tell that the gears in his head were beginning to turn again, because the carefree, relieved smile was slowly sliding off his face. For a moment he contemplated saying something to bring it back, if only to allow Arthur another moment of thoughtless happiness before he had to start questioning the others on how they got here.

But then Arthur stiffened slightly, leaning forward in his chair to stare at them intently, his features hardening in unmistakable alarm. "Gaheris and Dagonet?"

At Arthur's right, Merlin flinched, his gaze flickering around the table like he was noticing the squires' absence for the first time, and he wasn't the only one. Gwaine frowned, realizing that he hadn't so much as thought of them either until now, but to his relief, neither Percival nor Elyan seemed particularly surprised at the question.

"We sent them back to the border—the border of Camelot, I mean," Percival replied, easily enough. "We split up when we reached the forest with the druids..."

He trailed off then, though, and his hand paused where he'd been about to grab a pitcher of what smelled like exquisitely spiced wine. Gwaine found himself giving the pitcher a speculative look, and forced his eyes to refocus on Percival, who seemed oddly unsettled by his own words. His gaze sought and found Elyan's, and he sounded almost lost when he asked, "It was us who sent them away, right? Not the druids?"

Elyan shrugged slowly, looking just as uneasy as Percival seemed to feel. The smile was gone from his face, replaced by the kind of worried frown that looked like he had spend many sleepless nights turning this matter over in his head. "I don't remember if it was our idea or theirs to send them to safety before we ventured into Mercia," he replied, and rubbed a hand across his forehead as though to erase a confusing thought. "It's all a bit hazy."

"You were enchanted," Arthur stated, carefully probing—Gwaine couldn't help but admire his patience for just a moment, since he already would have been shaking Percival and Elyan back and forth to get answers out of them. Still, Arthur was clearly talking to them not just as their friend and fellow knight, but as their sovereign who wanted to shed some light on what had happened.

Percival and Elyan exchanged a glance, and Merlin leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intent and alert. "Probably," Elyan said at last, sounding just as uncertain as Percival seemed to feel, but the gaze he turned to Arthur was almost apologetic. "We waited for you in Cogeltone, but then we met those druids—they told us that they'd lead us to safety in the forest, and they must have enchanted us because we couldn't really remember why it was a bad idea to just follow them—"

Arthur held up a hand to stop the torrent of words, looking a bit contrite at having been misinterpreted. "None of us blames you, least of all me," he replied, holding each of their gazes for a moment to let the words sink in. "I am simply glad to see you safe."

Percival exhaled a slow breath and nodded, looking vaguely surprised, like he hadn't even really noticed the tension that had been coiling through him until just a moment ago. Gwaine smiled to himself—it must have felt like the same kind of strange epiphany that had been coming back to him as well. In a way, it was reassuring to learn that Gwaine wasn't the only one who hadn't quite grasped the thought of being a knight of Camelot yet, and who kept being blindsided by the concept at the most inopportune moments.

"We knew that it was dangerous to cross the Mercian border just like that," Elyan spoke up again into the silence. "So we sent them away. We didn't want them to get caught up in all this—they're just squires, and they're so young..."

He trailed off, and Percival leaned forward to pick up where Elyan had left off. "We left them with instructions to wait for us at the border, though," he said. His eyes were gleaming, and he was smiling just slightly, like he was still proud of that stroke of genius. "They're going to send word to Camelot if we're all not back within three weeks."

In spite of his bravado, he gave Arthur an uncertain look, but Arthur just nodded, folding his hands in front of himself like he'd expected as much. And just like that, Gwaine's mellow, relaxed mood evaporated, leaving behind a stale kind of dread that slowly tied his stomach into knots.

He stared at Percival, trying to process what he'd just heard. Sending word to Camelot meant that the king would find out that they had essentially been led to cross the Mercian border. Gwaine knew that King Uther was not one for calm and rational decisions when it came to his son's well-being, and that meant that Camelot's army would come barging into Mercian lands if they didn't reach Gaheris and Dagonet within the next three weeks.

 _Three weeks,_ Gwaine thought, and briefly dug the heels of his hands into his eyes to focus his thoughts. He was fairly sure that they could make it back to Camelot in time, if only they got out of the forest faster than they'd gotten in. With a slow surge of numb apprehension, Gwaine realized that _time_ was not the problem—it was what he still needed to _do_.

It wasn't like he had forgotten about his pact with the Green Knight, but considering everything that had happened during the past few weeks, he'd been too preoccupied with getting lost in the man's huge forest to give it some thought. But now he couldn't help but notice that he'd gotten no further than he'd been at Maneshale, staring at the blood-slicked blade of the Green Knight's axe. He would still need to settle this _thing_ he had agreed to, even if that meant getting his head cut off, and he still had no idea where or what the Green Chapel might be.

Dimly, he realized that Elyan was talking again in halting tones, and that Merlin was jostling him gently with his elbow, concern evident in his blue gaze. With a great effort, Gwaine shook himself, and plastered a reassuring smile on his face. Merlin looked fully alert and well-rested for the first time in weeks, and Gwaine didn't want to worry him, now that he was finally feeling better.

"It felt— strange, being enchanted," Elyan said, his dark gaze fixed on some spot on the table, but Gwaine could tell that he wasn't really looking at the rich breakfast laid out in front of him. "It wasn't what I thought it would be—it was like getting here was the most important thing, and that it didn't matter that you would reach Cogeltone and wonder where we'd gone. The responsibility of having to decide where to go was taken away from us, but aside from that, I didn't really feel different." His gaze sought Percival's, and Elyan seemed relieved when the other knight nodded thoughtfully, apparently reliving the experience as well.

Merlin shifted in his seat, slightly on edge again as he glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, but Arthur simply inclined his head, keeping his expression neutral. "Let's not dwell on it," he said abruptly, like he wanted to shake all of them out of their contemplative mood. "You're here now, and that's what matters."

"Does that mean we can eat now?" Leon inquired, and some of the accumulated tension left the air as everyone chuckled. Next to Gwaine, Merlin's stomach gave an audible rumble.

Still, Gwaine saw the way Arthur's gaze automatically moved to the doorway. "Normally I would insist we wait for our host to join us," he replied, ignoring Merlin's sigh, "but it doesn't seem like he'll join us this morning, so we may as well start without him."

He looked between Percival and Elyan for confirmation, and Elyan grinned back, seeming smug for some reason. "He might drop by later," he stated, pointedly avoiding any eye contact with Percival. "He's been mostly out in the forest since we came here, but I'm sure he'll want to meet the rest of his guests soon."

It could just have been a trick of the light, but Gwaine thought he saw Elyan elbow Percival in the side. He frowned, glancing back and forth between them, well aware that there was some subtle teasing going on that he didn't know about. But then Merlin grabbed the pitcher of wine to fill their goblets, and he decided to let the matter rest for now.

No one talked much while they ate and drank. Gwaine didn't know if it was because of the delicious food or the simple need for a break in their routine of having to deal with either dead vassals or enchantments or strange nature magic. But he welcomed the lull in conversation, concentrating mostly on replenishing his supply of wine whenever his goblet ran dry.

Next to him, Merlin was abandoning any and all table manners as he practically inhaled his breakfast, but no one seemed to mind. Even Arthur didn't say anything when his manservant tried to stuff an entire slice of the thick bread into his mouth at once. Gwaine suspected that he was just as glad that Merlin was eating normally, restoring the strength that had inexplicably seeped out of him since they'd entered the forest. He noticed that Arthur kept sneaking pieces of smoked ham onto Merlin's plate whenever he wasn't looking, and quickly raised his goblet again to hide his smile.

The sun crept to its peak in the sky as they ate, and finally shone in through the large window at Percival's back, warming the room. Leon commented idly that he was glad that they would get a few days' rest before continuing onwards, to general murmurs of assent although they hadn't even discussed whether to stay at the mansion yet. But they deserved a break after such a long time spent almost constantly on the road, Gwaine concluded, and swirled the last of his wine around in his cup, wondering if it was too early to hog the other pitcher and get tipsy.

There was a creak of wood behind him, and when Gwaine turned in his seat he saw that a small door had opened to admit two dark-haired servants, carrying large wooden trays. Lancelot and Elyan's murmured conversation tapered off as they approached the table and bowed almost in sync, and proceeded to clear away the remains of their breakfast.

"We hope that the food met your standards, sirs," one of them said in an oddly scratchy voice. In spite of his demeanor, he didn't sound all that deferential, merely curious, and he cocked his head to the side, staring at Gwaine with eyes that looked nearly black even in the sunlight.

Gwaine fought down an irrational stirring of wariness, and put on his best charming grin. Hell, he was practically turning into _Arthur_ if a servant's bold tone was enough to unsettle him. "Best I've had in a long while," he replied, and patted his stomach. "If the food stays this great, we'll have to roll home."

The servant smiled, showing off two rows of pointed glittering teeth. "Thank you, sir," he said, with a little twitch of his head that didn't quite pass for a bow. "My lord will be here soon. I am sure he will be glad to make your acquaintance."

For a moment Gwaine couldn't help but muse about the casualness with which he'd just referred to Camelot as his home, but he pushed the thought away again. This was not the time to dwell on things like that, especially since none of them knew when they would be seeing the tall spires of the citadel again. He leaned back to let the servants take his empty plate, and within moments the table was cleared of food. Laden down with filled trays, they bowed in unison and walked out the way they'd come, the door clicking shut behind them.

" _Your_ acquaintance?" Arthur asked into the silence, sounding dumbfounded although there was no irritation in his voice. The atmosphere had shifted with the servants' arrival, and from the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw that Leon was still looking at the door. Only now did it occur to him that the servants had essentially ignored Arthur although he'd made his status quite clear by sitting at the head of the table.

He shrugged when Arthur met his gaze, not quite knowing what to say—in a way, he was glad that he wasn't the only one who had been a bit unsettled, though. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there had been something odd about the two men.

"Maybe we should—," Lancelot began, shifting as if to rise from his chair, but Gwaine barely caught a glimpse of his worried expression before the big oaken door at the end of the room opened, cutting him off.

Light spilled in from the hallway before the door fell shut again, leaving a bright afterimage in Gwaine's eyes, and for a moment he didn't even see that someone had entered the room. But then a tall, broad-shouldered man walked forward into the patch of sunlight at their table, wearing a welcoming smile, and Gwaine realized that this was the lord of the mansion.

For a moment, he just looked at them as though he hadn't expected to see quite this number of people in his dining hall. Bright, keen eyes assessed all of them, and Gwaine instantly recognized the intense scrutiny behind his gaze although his smile never wavered. His stance was loose, unthreatening but subtly self-assured, hinting at a warrior's feline grace even in stillness.

Then he inclined his head, including all of them in the greeting, although Gwaine couldn't help but feel a small measure of relief when he didn't focus on him like the servant had done, turning to Arthur instead. "What a terrible host I've been," he said, the words deferential enough although laughter seemed to dance just out of reach in his tone. "You must think me a brute who cannot be bothered to sit down for breakfast with his guests!"

Almost against his will, Gwaine found himself relaxing; on his left, Leon's shoulders slumped a little as he followed suit. The man's voice, rich and deep and slightly rough, was enough to defuse the tension in the air, even more than his jovial words.

"'tis the hunting season," he went on, with boyish excitement that earned identical smiles from Percival and Elyan. The two of them seemed completely at ease, and Gwaine realized that they had had the chance to get to know the man already, as they'd been here longer. "Well, any time is suited for hunting in these parts, but this morning seemed particularly feasible."

Gwaine blinked, and noticed for the first time that he was dressed for hunting, in leather and dull colors that wouldn't draw the attention of his prey in the woods. "But if you will forgive me for my lamentable manners," the man finished, "I shall make up for it."

He was looking at Arthur, Gwaine realized, waiting for permission to go on. Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze flickering across their host's face; Gwaine could all but see the gears turning in his head, but at last he motioned for the man to go on, seeming to find no hidden meaning in his words. "To whom do we owe this hospitality?"

The man bowed to Arthur, a fluid, well-practiced motion. "You may call me Grænn," he said as he straightened up again, and for a moment Gwaine thought he saw mischief dancing in his eyes, although he couldn't quite place the expression. "And this is my lovely wife, Ragnelle."

There was a slightly befuddled silence, and then Leon sucked in an audible breath just when Gwaine realized where he'd heard that name before and why he hadn't expected to hear it here, of all places. He exchanged a quick, alarmed look with Leon, but Grænn didn't seem to notice the effect that his words had had—he just turned slightly, reaching behind himself.

For the first time, Gwaine noticed that he hadn't come in alone. A woman stepped out of the shadows and dipped a quick, clumsy curtsy, not looking at any of them. Then she moved forward to stand slightly behind Grænn, stepping into the patch of sunlight that streamed in through the window.

Gwaine's first thought was that Erik had been wrong—he couldn't fault the boy for his valiant defense of his sister, of course, but she really was ugly. Or more like _plain_ , he corrected himself, frowning at the unkindness of his own mind; it wasn't like just looking at her made him cringe, after all. But there was something subtly unappealing in the way her features seemed to sit oddly on her face, in the thin brown hair that hung limply down to her shoulders. Her snub nose might have looked charming if it hadn't been too big, and either her mouth really was that small or she was just pressing her lips together in discomfort.

Small, heavy-lidded eyes met Gwaine's for the briefest moment before her gaze skittered down and away. She wore a simple dark blue dress, devoid of the elaborate embroidery that Gwaine was used to seeing on the noblewomen of Camelot, but there was something regal about her still, identifying her as a woman of noble birth.

"And you, of course, are Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," Grænn declared, startling Gwaine out of his thoughts; apparently he hadn't noticed Gwaine's scrutiny of his wife. _Wife_ , Gwaine repeated to himself, incredulously—he remembered that Erik had said that she'd gone away to look for a husband, and it seemed she'd found one.

Arthur looked surprised for a moment, but then he just inclined his head, deciding not to question how their host knew who he was. Grænn's gaze traveled around the table as his smile grew wider, resting on each of them for a brief moment. "And these are Sirs Leon, Lancelot, Merlin, and Gwaine, I believe?"

There was a short, stunned silence, and a faint scrape of wood on wood as Leon subtly pushed back his chair, just enough to be able to jump up quickly if need be. Arthur's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Gwaine knew that he was regretting the fact that none of them were currently carrying their weapons.

Grænn's demeanor never changed, though, and his smile had lost none of its joviality as he nodded in Percival and Elyan's general direction. "News travel fast in these parts, hurried on by the tales of your brave companions," he said lightly, though there was a hint of seriousness in his tone now. "I am honored to be hosting the finest fighters of Camelot. Greater are none beneath the sun."

He bowed again, the sunlight shimmering in his unruly red hair, probably still disheveled from his earlier hunting expedition. Gwaine exhaled slowly, forcing his hands to unclench from around the arms of his chair. It was like his mind and his eyes didn't agree on what he was seeing—the man seemed friendly enough, and Gwaine didn't think he'd suddenly draw the knives hanging from his belt to kill them all. His welcoming manner was genuine, but there was also something off about him, a subtle undercurrent that reminded Gwaine of someone, although he couldn't say who.

"You don't need to 'sir' me," Merlin mumbled into the silence, but promptly shut up at a dull thump underneath the table, presumably where Arthur had kicked him in the shin.

"We thank you for your hospitality," Arthur began slowly, folding his hands in front of himself, and Gwaine instantly recognized his tone from Camelot's dusty council chambers. It was Arthur's court voice, the one he used to maneuver his way out of delicate situations—it seemed like Gwaine wasn't the only one who still felt a bit wary.

"Surely you will stay for another few days?" Grænn spoke up again, almost interrupting the prince. A minute frown creased Arthur's forehead, but even for him, it was hard to maintain some semblance of annoyance when Grænn smiled winningly. "We would be honored to have you."

There was a short pause, in which Arthur seemed to carefully consider his next words. Grænn's smile never wavered, but there was a new sharpness in his eyes that Gwaine couldn't quite place, the barest hint of worry. "We have business to attend to," Arthur said at last, and to Gwaine's surprise, he found the prince's gaze suddenly meeting and holding his own.

"Three," Grænn countered, spreading his hands as though to show off the richly decorated room as just one of his mansion's many assets. "Stay here for three days, and I will safely see you on your way once you have restored your spirits."

Arthur blinked at him, a bit surprised at their host's insistence, but the caution in his eyes hadn't morphed into true distrust yet. Grænn moved over to the window with idle steps even as he continued to talk, his tone light and jovial although the tightness hadn't quite left his posture yet. "You've come a long way, and my wife and I would love to hear tales of your journey, since so few travelers pass through our forest these days. It is said to be haunted," he added, narrow-eyed amusement briefly eclipsing the underlying tension.

For a moment, Arthur seemed to consider that, but when he spoke, Gwaine couldn't help but commend him for resisting Grænn's efforts to divert his attention. "We seek the Green Chapel," he stated, watching carefully for any signs of recognition.

Gwaine barely managed to contain his flinch, and quickly bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep words of surprise from spilling out of his mouth. _Do we, now?_ he wanted to ask, simply because this had come so out of the blue that he'd never seen it coming. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Merlin staring at Arthur in astonishment—until now, Gwaine would never have guessed that Arthur had even thought about his plight. He certainly hadn't wanted to support Gwaine in fulfilling his promise to the Green Knight.

Arthur's caution didn't seem warranted, though. Grænn just raised his eyebrows in polite surprise before he turned back to the window, putting a hand on the sill to look out at his lands. "The Green Chapel," he repeated softly, almost to himself. "I haven't heard those words in ages."

"We have business to attend to there," Arthur pressed, leaning forward in his chair like a hunter who had just picked up the trail of a particularly large deer. His gaze was edged with steel, and Gwaine knew that if this had been a duel, he would have had Grænn backed into a corner with his hard, unforgiving stare alone.

But Grænn didn't seem to notice the barely concealed suspicion in Arthur's eyes. He turned away from the window to face them again, his smile as friendly and harmless as ever. Sunlight glinted in his hair, setting coppery fire to the tousled strands. "It is a hidden, timeless place," he said, inclining his head at all of them as if to commend their choice of destination. "I am sure the ancient walls will be glad to be graced with the presence of such brave warriors."

Around the table, the others were silent, careful not to interrupt. Leon and Lancelot were holding each other's gazes in silent agreement, and Gwaine knew that they were picking up on Arthur's wariness even though they might not have shared it completely. Percival and Elyan just seemed a bit confused, like they didn't quite understand what had brought on this hidden confrontation between their prince and the kind host they knew.

"Do you know where it is?" Arthur finally asked, when the silence was becoming uncomfortable. By now, Ragnelle had raised her head as well, her worried gaze flitting back and forth between Arthur and her husband.

"Ah, what I would give to see that place with my own two eyes," Grænn said wistfully, not quite evading the question as he slowly walked back around the table. "For centuries, it has been commemorated in legend and song..."

He trailed off with an oddly secretive smile, and Gwaine suddenly noticed that Merlin, who was wearing a pinched expression of complete concentration, didn't even seem to be listening. He was staring at the side of Grænn's head like he wanted to drill a hole through his temple with his narrowed eyes alone. Gwaine blinked at him for a confused moment, shaken out of following the back-and-forth conversation. But there was something in the air, an undefinable, otherworldly crackle that seemed to hover around Merlin, and Gwaine didn't dare to nudge him with his elbow.

Arthur exhaled a slow breath, like he'd just come to an abrupt decision. "Three days," he repeated, choosing not to pursue the matter of the Green Chapel for now. The words came out sounding like half a question, and Grænn's expression lost its shadowed secrecy.

He smiled broadly at all of them, inordinately happy that Arthur was well on his way to being convinced to stay. Still, Gwaine saw that the caution hadn't left the prince's gaze, and he knew that Arthur just didn't want to provoke their host too much, choosing to go along with his wishes instead, at least for now.

"Three days," Grænn confirmed, clapping his hands together in glee as though he was already thinking of all the long evenings they would spend talking in front of the fireplace. "And I will send you on your way when your stay is over."

Merlin leaned back again, almost slumping into his chair with the sudden release of tension from his shoulders. He still looked troubled, but seemed unwilling to argue with the prince in front of their host—at least the inexplicable hint of strange, unearthly power was gone from his gaze. Arthur just nodded absently, like he didn't really believe that Grænn could help them find the Green Chapel, but didn't want to show it.

Grænn's gaze swept over all of them, thoughtfulness shadowing the easy cheer in his eyes. "But I must warn you," he said, more quietly now, and for a moment he seemed to be looking only at Gwaine, although it was hard to tell with the sunlight shining into his eyes. "No living being has graced the Chapel with their presence in a long time, and all noblemen who tried to reach it had to abandon hope soon."

This time, Gwaine was sure that Grænn was looking at him, and he squashed a tiny tremor of apprehension, telling himself that Grænn _couldn't_ know about his pact with the Green Knight. There had to be a hundred local legends about the Chapel, maybe even some about the Green Knight himself, like the song that Merlin had told them about. Grænn was probably just trying to scare him anyway.

Gwaine allowed a slow smile to spread across his features, careful to keep his posture relaxed. "I may be a knight, but I'm not really a nobleman," he pointed out, ignoring the twin looks of alarm that Merlin and Arthur had fixed him with.

It must have been the right thing to say, because Grænn laughed, a full-blown laugh with his head thrown back, briefly exposing the pale arch of his throat. Caught off-guard, Gwaine just blinked back at him when Grænn looked at him again, eyes twinkling with a coy amusement that nudged at something buried deep within Gwaine's memory. "It is not your birth but your actions that make you noble," he stated, his tone warmly teasing, like he was telling Gwaine something that he really ought to have figured out by himself, "and whether _your_ actions will be noble remains to be seen."

 _Is that a challenge?_ Gwaine wanted to ask, but held his tongue. A short, jerky movement caught his eye behind Grænn's form; his eyes needed a moment to adjust to the shadows, and he was surprised to see that Ragnelle had taken a step forward, poised as though to step in and interrupt the conversation.

But something must have frozen her in place, because she flinched back when their gazes met, dropping her hand back to her side. Her eyes were wide with alarm, trapping his in an unmistakable silent warning; Gwaine frowned, his mouth already half open to ask her what was wrong. But a tiny shake of her head stopped him, the warning plea in her stare never wavering.

He was so caught up in watching Ragnelle that he almost missed Grænn's next words—he had walked back to the window, oblivious to his wife's discomfort. Reluctantly, he turned back around to their host, confused thoughts flitting through his head like birds across a cloudy sky.

"Even at this time of year, the evenings are long in this forest," Grænn said, pensively. The gently swaying treetops outside didn't hold his attention for long, and he swung back around the look at them after a moment, an oddly meaningful smile on his features. "And since I have to keep my guests entertained, may I propose a game?"

His gaze locked with Arthur's for a moment, and Arthur stared back at him in surprise, apparently not having expected the abrupt turn in the conversation. But Grænn didn't wait for him to formulate an answer before he looked away—perhaps he'd noticed the way Merlin had stiffened in his seat.

There was a carefully constructed idleness in the way Grænn looked at each of them, and Gwaine wasn't even all that surprised when his gaze finally came to rest on him. With a courteously raised eyebrow, he asked, "Sir Gwaine?"

"Sure, why not," Gwaine said, trying to hide the sudden stir of trepidation that rose in his gut. Somehow, he had the feeling that if he were to turn around, he would find Ragnelle looking at him still, trying to warn him with her eyes alone.

"Excellent," Grænn exclaimed, moving around the table with swift, sure steps. His expression was as friendly and open as ever, but coming face to face with him, Gwaine couldn't help but feel like he'd just walked into a trap. "How about a bargain, then, a friendly pact to shorten the long hours of the night?"

For a moment, Gwaine wanted to point out that if Grænn wanted to keep them from getting bored at his house, he could just have sent them on their way. He allowed courtesy to get the better of him, though, and smiled blandly back. "What do you have in mind?"

Grænn studied him with narrowed eyes, as if to figure out what kind of game would suit both of them. "An exchange," he said slowly, "an exchange of winnings, if you will, where each of us gives the other what they have gained during the day."

"Gained?" Gwaine repeated, not quite sure if he was following. The whole situation reminded him eerily of a hunt, except he was the prey for now, instead of the predator, and he didn't like that perspective one bit. "What do you mean?"

Chuckling, Grænn surprised him by clapping him on the shoulder, his hand a heavy, strangely comforting weight. "Oh, but where would be the fun in that if I just told you?" he asked, joviality lightening his tone once more. "It could be anything, good sir—anything at all that you gain during the day and that you think suitable to share with me at night."

Gwaine sighed, well aware that he couldn't disagree anymore now without offending Grænn—or worse, looking like a coward. He was way too prone to getting himself roped into exchanges these days, although this one appeared to be far more harmless than his bargain with the Green Knight. It seemed innocent enough, just a friendly contest of sorts, set up by their somewhat eccentric host.

"All right," he said abruptly, not at all surprised by the collective sigh of relief that seemed to hang in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Merlin's worried expression and Arthur's appreciative nod, but he ignored both of them, fixing Grænn with an unwavering stare. "So we meet in the evenings and exchange whatever we won during the day? Sounds like fun to me. I'll do it."

Without thinking, he reached out his hand for Grænn to shake, still holding the other man's eyes—it was an impulsive gesture, born out of nothing more than the sudden need to seal their compact somehow. But for a moment, he seemed to have caught Grænn completely off-guard. He stared down at Gwaine's fingers like he'd never shaken hands with anyone before, surprise warring with something else in his eyes, an unnameable emotion that looked almost like nostalgia.

When Grænn took his hand and shook it, Gwaine couldn't help but notice the relief in his eyes, poorly hidden by his ever-present easy grin. It was just a stupid little game to pass the time, it shouldn't have been enough to disarm Grænn, to wipe at least a part of the jovial mask off his face. It made Gwaine pause, unsettled him in the strangest way, and he found himself grasping Grænn's hand for a little longer than necessary, trying to communicate without words that he was willing to go along with his scheme for now, even if he had no idea what it all meant.

That seemed to mark the end of their morning. Grænn declared that the day was still young and that they were all free to roam about his mansion as they pleased. Ragnelle curtsied to them, her motions stiff and clumsy during that single moment when their attention rested on her; with a last apprehensive look in Gwaine's direction, she turned away. For just a moment, her gaze drifted, came to rest on something just above his left shoulder. It could just have been a trick of the light, but Gwaine thought he saw a slight blush staining her sallow cheeks.

Arthur nodded courteously when his host stated that he would go hunting and that his wife had business to attend to at the house. His features were wiped blank of any expression but polite curiosity, but Gwaine could tell that the gears in his head were turning. They watched in silence as Grænn inclined his head to each of them in turn, Merlin's expression betraying his flicker of discomfort when he was included in the courteous gesture.

It was only when Grænn bowed to him, sunlight gleaming in his hair and his smile, that Gwaine realized his eyes were green.

 

 

Although lunch was every bit as delicious and filling as breakfast had been, even the warm, comforting weight of food couldn't appease the anxiety that gnawed in Arthur's stomach.

A gentle breeze sifted through his hair as he stepped outside through the mansion's enormous back door, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. For the first time in a long while, he was completely alone—not even Grænn's servants were around, the backyard deserted in front of him, and Arthur let out a long, slow breath.

It felt good to be by himself, with no one around that he had to reassure about this strange interlude in their journey. Percival had promised to take the others down to the armory, the gleam in his eye suggesting just how much he was looking forward to some much-needed sparring. Although Elyan had teased him mercilessly, Gwaine had begged off, mumbling something about taking an afternoon nap. Arthur didn't doubt that Gwaine's thoughts were in just as much disarray as his own, and didn't blame him for wanting to be alone as well.

As he slowly followed the winding trail through clusters of small trees, Arthur realized that Grænn's property was far bigger than he'd thought it was. He'd thought that it was just a backyard surrounded by the forest, but although the garden became wilder and less carefully groomed the further Arthur advanced, it was clearly still part of Grænn's property. A gentle slope led him down into a valley, past a small pond surrounded by huge, ancient oaks and firs. Birds sung overhead, continuing to chirp even as he walked past under a canopy of leaves.

He stopped when he reached a large, fenced lawn that had been cleared of trees, and saw their horses grazing peacefully in the sun. Their fur shone in the light, tails swishing occasionally to chase away errant flies, and for a while Arthur was content to stand there and watch them, resting his arms on the gnarled sun-warmed wood of the fence. They, at least, seemed glad for the chance to take a break from their journey and relax.

Llamrei snorted indignantly at Gryngolet when he ventured too close to where she was grazing, and Arthur smiled absently, watching the white stallion toss his mane and stride a few paces away. To all intents and purposes, he should have been happy about the welcome reprieve as well, but he couldn't shake off a strange sense of foreboding. Like a bad aftertaste, it had begun to clog at the back of his throat when Grænn had convinced them to stay, poisoning each breath he took. He knew he couldn't have refused the invitation without violating any and all laws of courtesy, but he still felt like he had failed the others somehow, led them into a trap that no one had seen coming.

Restless once more, Arthur pushed himself away from the fence, strolling down a shadowed path with brisk, quick steps. What was done was done, and it wouldn't do to dwell on it and second-guess his own decision, but his mind kept circling around the issue no matter how hard he tried to push those thoughts away.

Just before he rounded a sudden bend in the path, he heard the rush and trickle of running water, reaching his ears through a copse of birches. Leaves lazily brushed his shoulders as if in greeting, the grass soft and springy under his boots as he followed the sound to a small, fast brook.

Although he wasn't all that surprised at the sight of Merlin, Arthur still stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, staring at the bow of his back and his tousled dark hair, taking in the focused dip of his head. He was kneeling by the stream, a basket full of wet clothes next to him, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he tried to scrub a stain out of what Arthur recognized as one of Leon's tunics.

For a long moment, Arthur felt rooted to the spot, frozen by the sight of Merlin's hair curling messily over his ears, his cold-reddened hands as he wrung the water out of the fabric. When he finally moved, though, his feet seemed to step forward on their own accord, carrying him to the side of the brook until he was kneeling next to his manservant.

"Hey," Merlin said, with a quick, delighted smile that settled like a weight behind Arthur's ribs. He didn't seem surprised to see him—he'd probably heard Arthur coming, since he'd made no effort to silence his steps before he'd seen Merlin there. "I thought you'd gone sparring with the others."

"No," Arthur replied, dumbly. There was a small pile of dry clothes in front of him, in dire need of a washing after weeks of traveling. Merlin deposited Leon's shirt in the basket, and Arthur found himself handing him a pair of breeches before he could second-guess the movements of his hands.

Merlin gave him a sidelong curious look, but didn't say anything, seeming to pick up on Arthur's odd mood on his own. He worked in silence for a while, scrubbing patiently at the dried mud that had caked into dirty patches on the fabric. The brook ran brown and cleared again as the dirt came off, and Merlin submerged the rest of the breeches underwater, just letting them soak for a moment.

Several times, Arthur found himself drawing a breath as if to speak, but closed his mouth each time before any words could spill forth from his jumbled thoughts. He wanted to ask Merlin what he thought about all of this, about Grænn and his insistence that they stayed with him, about the fact that they had found Ragnelle after all, in the last place they'd thought to look. He wanted to know what Merlin thought about the weird game that Gwaine had gotten himself into.

If this had been any other day, Arthur would already have put a brief hand on Merlin's shoulder, trying to judge by his reaction just how alert and sane he felt that day. But the forest's magic seemed to have loosened its hold on Merlin for now—he'd said that the mansion was shielding him, and his movements were steady and sure, devoid of the haphazard clumsiness from before. Without the necessity of contact, Arthur felt imbalanced and unsettled around Merlin, oddly numb where he'd been warm before.

He leveled a careful look at his manservant, checking him for the signs of tense weariness that he'd gotten so used to during their journey through the forest, but he saw none. There was still a hint of dark smudges under his eyes, but his eyes were clear and alert, fully aware of his surroundings and focused entirely on the task in front of him. Most of all, they were _blue_ , and all of a sudden, Arthur was fiercely grateful that he hadn't kicked Merlin out of his bed after all when he'd collapsed there the night before, allowing him to get some much-needed rest.

However, Merlin couldn't have been quite as focused as Arthur had thought he was, because he glanced at him from the corner of his eye, an uncertain smile lifting the corners of his mouth, and said, quietly, "It's good to know that you feel it too."

For some reason, the first thing that Arthur thought of was the incident in the forest. He flinched, feeling his face heat up even though he knew Merlin couldn't have meant his idle comment like that—he wouldn't speak of that so casually. "Feel what?" he asked, careful to keep his voice from betraying his thoughts, smoothing the uncomfortable surprise into evenness.

"That something is— off." Merlin shrugged at his own inability to put into words what he meant, gesturing at the cluster of trees and the swaying grass, Grænn's house looming tall through the treetops. Arthur hadn't gotten a good look at it when they'd arrived the night before, but by daylight, he could see how large it was, sun-warmed masonry peeking out between green twines.

"You could be doing this at the mansion," Arthur said, gesturing to the wet pair of breeches that Merlin was currently wringing out. "I'm sure you'd get some hot water there, too."

Merlin sighed, and threw the wet clothes into the basket, already reaching for the next shirt that Arthur held out to him. "The servants," he started slowly, as if to turn each word over in his mind and examine it for flaws before he voiced it. "I don't like them. They... unsettle me."

"They scare you, you mean," Arthur deadpanned, feeling just a little better at the familiar scrap of banter, small though it was. Merlin _did_ sound unsettled, but not afraid, and although the thought alone made him feel stupid, Arthur couldn't help the small swell of pride that lit up his chest.

Rolling his eyes, Merlin swatted at him with the dripping shirt, leaving a streak of wetness down Arthur's forearm. A wry grin quirked his mouth, though, and Arthur knew that he was just as glad for the shred of normalcy. "If we're staying for two more days, I'm going to get the rest of this laundry done, strange watchful servants or no."

The reminder was enough to wipe the slight smile off Arthur's features, and he turned his gaze down to the gurgling water before he could see Merlin's face fall in response. He felt Merlin's eyes on him like a physical touch, studying the tension in his jaw although Arthur tried to keep his expression blank. Just yesterday, Merlin might have let it slide, but today there was no escaping the small, worried frown on his manservant's face, now that he was fully himself again.

"Our task here is done," Arthur said at last, when the silence had become uncomfortable. Although he'd _wanted_ to discuss this with Merlin when he'd first seen him by the brook, the words felt like they were being pulled out of him now. "I don't even know what we're still doing here. I shouldn't have accepted Grænn's invitation."

"You would have stepped on his toes," Merlin pointed out, leaning forward to rub at a dark patch on the shirt's sleeve. He didn't try to catch Arthur's gaze, and for that, Arthur was grateful. "We don't know anything about who he is, what he might have done if you hadn't agreed to stay—"

Arthur shook his head, frustration bubbling up to the surface no matter how hard he tried to squash it. Merlin was right, he knew, but it didn't mean he felt any better about his decision, or about the fact that they were delayed for two more days now. He still had no idea how long it would take them to find the Green Chapel, but he had the feeling that they'd have to race back to Camelot to prevent Uther from sending the entire army into Mercia.

"I should be back in Camelot and report to my father about the nobles," he bit out, not bothering to disguise the frustration in his voice. "But instead I'm stuck in the middle of this godforsaken forest and have to make nice with an eccentric nobleman who somehow managed to rope Gwaine into _yet another_ inadvisable mind game."

Merlin was silent for a long moment, likely thinking about what he could reply to that, which words would soothe the flare of Arthur's temper. The thought sent a spark of irrational anger through him, although he knew he was being unfair now—he didn't _want_ to be soothed. His fingers were still curling in the fabric of his breeches at the thought of Uther, alone among his council of wizened old men. He probably still thought that Bayard had killed their potential allies, suspicion hardening into certainty with each day that Arthur wasn't there to steer him away from doing something reckless.

"Uther's got Gaius to help him," Merlin finally answered, his voice careful and calm as he turned away from the brook to face Arthur, their gazes meeting with a suddenness that caught Arthur off-guard. For a thoughtless, ugly moment, Arthur wanted to sneer at him, ask whether Merlin thought Gaius was still sneaking sleeping draughts into the king's wine, alone with that task now that Arthur was gone.

But the calmness in Merlin's eyes silenced him, halted even the tumultuous tumble of his thoughts. He saw the tiniest of frowns crease Merlin's forehead, his serene expression twitching for just a moment, but his voice didn't waver when he said, "And you've got me."

Arthur snorted, but it sounded weak to his own ears, a pale imitation of disdain that didn't fool Merlin either, if his unwavering stare was anything to go by. "Do I?" Arthur retorted, more out of residual misguided spite than anything else, although he knew that none of this was Merlin's fault.

"Yes," Merlin replied, and suddenly Arthur _wanted_ to laugh and scoff, with a desperation that scared him just slightly, because if he didn't, the simple certainty in Merlin's voice would render him defenseless. "You always have."

The words silenced the squirming discomfort in his gut as though Merlin had put a spell on him. But his eyes were blue and wide like the sky above, the very hint of a blush staining his pale cheeks when Arthur didn't speak and just looked at him, really _looked_ like he was seeing Merlin for the first time.

Maybe he was, in a way, because Merlin's words sounded so much like the promises that he had wrought into their friendship long before Arthur had found out about his magic. For the first time, Arthur found himself thinking that even through the icy silence that had stretched between them for such a long while, loyalty had never lost its meaning for his manservant. And with Merlin so thoughtlessly convinced of his place at Arthur's side, maybe there was no need for any defenses at all.

The shirt was still soaking in the stream, forgotten, but although they had been holding each other's gaze for far too long, neither of them wanted to break away from the moment. Arthur wondered hazily if Merlin knew how hard his heart was pounding, if he could see the flutter of his pulse in his neck. He felt knocked off his feet in the strangest way, and found himself almost swaying towards Merlin, just as Merlin had done yesterday in the clearing, seeking support in the steadfast blue of Merlin's eyes.

"And we can't go back to Camelot just yet," Merlin spoke up again after a long while, his voice hushed like he didn't want to shatter the quietude. "This whole thing isn't over yet. We found all the dead nobles, but..."

He trailed off, obviously not wanting to start in on the subject of the Green Knight all by himself, but Arthur did him the favor of nodding, taking a deep breath to shake himself out of the strange, fluttery feeling that had settled in his stomach. It was somewhat comforting to see that he wasn't the only one who had to gather the frayed remains of his thoughts, though. Merlin blinked down at the wet shirt for confused a moment before he snatched it out of the stream, flexing the fingers of his right hand, probably numb with cold after such a long time underwater.

"We still need to take care of the whole thing with the Green Knight," Arthur stated, watching in confusion as Merlin's shoulders stiffened as if he was bracing himself. But a second later, the lightness in his stomach hardened into a stony, unyielding lump when his thoughts reached the same conclusion that Merlin's had. "And— Morgana."

Although he could tell his manservant tried to hide it, he still saw Merlin flinch. He busied himself with squeezing the water from the shirt, pretending to be entirely focused on his task, but Arthur could tell Merlin was just avoiding his gaze on purpose. Maybe he felt guilty for how long it had taken him to tell him about her involvement in the whole issue, but this, at least, was something that Arthur would never have held against him. In the forest, Merlin had been struggling to hold on to his magic and his mind in equal measure, and Arthur didn't blame him for having been distracted.

He released a long, slow breath, and briefly thought of putting a hand on Merlin's shoulder in reassurance, but couldn't quite bring himself to move. "I don't even know what to say to her," he admitted, the words hushed as though he were telling a secret. It wasn't anything he'd ever allowed himself to think about, and he didn't intend to start _now_ , but it still bothered him, a subdued but insistent nagging at the back of his mind.

"Maybe you need not say anything at all," Merlin ventured after a moment of silence, less subdued, now that he'd realized that he wasn't about to get shouted at.

Arthur snorted mirthlessly, his fingers curling in the sun-warmed fabric of the tunic on their own accord. "Yeah, I guess she'll be too busy trying to kill me as soon as she catches sight of me."

Merlin let out a sigh, and even the simple exhalation of air sounded sad. "You don't know that."

Irritation made his breath stutter in Arthur's lungs, but he didn't allow it to seep into his voice this time. It wasn't _Merlin_ he was angry at, after all, no matter how frustrating he found the other man's tendency to feel compassion and benevolence towards just about anyone. "Because she seized Camelot's throne and drove my— _our_ father mad?"

The words stuck uncomfortably in his throat, but he forced them out anyway, not caring that Merlin must have heard the way his voice nearly broke on them, like his vocal chords didn't want to admit what his mind had known for a while. Merlin gave him a quick, startled look before dropping his gaze back to the running water.

But as he plunged a pair of socks into the stream, he scooted closer to Arthur until his knee was pressed to Arthur's thigh, casually, as if completely by accident. Arthur took a deep, steadying breath, and another, until his throat felt a little less tight and the urge to break something faded into the background. Merlin's knee was warm, although it didn't quite make the bruised, brittle feeling in his chest go away.

"Iseldir talked to me last night, before I went to bed," Merlin said after a pause, when he deemed Arthur ready to take in more information. He kept his gaze on the socks, but Arthur could tell that his senses were attuned only to him, ready to stop as soon as it seemed like Arthur didn't want to hear more. "He said she was half mad with grief over Morgause, and that no one could have done anything to stop her."

 _Is that supposed to make me feel better?_ Arthur wanted to ask, but didn't, because he knew Merlin was only _trying_ , and just now he didn't feel like taking out his knotted tangle of emotions on his manservant. There was bitterness there, and righteous anger, along with the heavy pull of regret, untempered by the knowledge that Merlin was right.

The Green Knight and the dead nobles were just pawns in this, moved by Morgana's uncaring hand, and he didn't care what Iseldir had said about her state of mind. Arthur just wanted to find her and confront her, although he knew he would have even less of an idea what to say to her when they finally met again after all this time. A small, cruel part of him even wanted to help the Green Knight out of her enchantment by now, just to watch Morgana try to deal with an ancient forest spirit's revenge.

He cleared his throat, struggling to shake off those dark thoughts, and tried for a lighter tone when he said, "Morgana aside, we also can't go back to Camelot until Gwaine has fulfilled his promise."

Merlin gave him a puzzled sidelong glance—he'd probably heard the undercurrent of reluctance in Arthur's voice. But the tight line of his shoulders unclenched when he relaxed, obviously just as glad as Arthur to leave the subject of Morgana behind. He scrubbed at the socks with renewed vigor. "I didn't think you cared."

Arthur rolled his eyes, most of his own tension melting away at the familiar motion, and for a brief moment, he wondered at how easy it was to abandon the brooding swirl of thoughts that had occupied his mind in favor of their familiar banter. "I still think he's a reckless fool," he pointed out, not bothering to conceal the disdain in his voice. "But I guess even reckless fools have something to prove sometimes."

"And yet you asked Grænn about the Green Chapel," Merlin pointed out, smugness curling into the curve of his smile, but just this once Arthur didn't mind.

"Yes, well," he muttered. The socks were wrung out and tossed aside, and Arthur handed Merlin the last of the shirts, a dark red one that he recognized as one of his own. "Gwaine seems pretty serious about this challenge. He hasn't run for the hills yet."

Predictably, Merlin gave him a mildly annoyed look, jostling Arthur with his bony elbow. Even though the fabric of his tunic, his naked elbow felt cold, chilled from how long Merlin had had his hands in the water. "He wouldn't have _run_ ," Merlin objected, coming to Gwaine's defense like Arthur had known he would.

Arthur shrugged, watching his shirt get even darker in the water as Merlin untangled the laces on the front and searched for stains. "I thought he would take off as soon as life in Camelot got difficult."

Although Merlin didn't look at him, Arthur saw the way his hands slowed and his brow furrowed in thought. He didn't seem offended on Gwaine's behalf this time—maybe he had secretly feared that his friend would run off as well, or maybe the idea just struck him as rather likely.

When Merlin spoke, Arthur could tell by the slowness of his voice that he'd carefully weighed his words. "Maybe he's found a standard that he thinks it's worth to live up to."

Almost as an afterthought, Arthur found himself grinning. "Mine?"

Merlin snorted, the veil of seriousness lifting from his features as he gave Arthur a wry grin. "Don't flatter yourself." He was quiet for a moment, turning the issue over in his mind, until he found a splotch of mud near the hem of the shirt and started to rub at it. "I think he's getting the hang of this whole knighthood business."

 _This whole knighthood business_ , Arthur repeated to himself, shaking his head with a flicker of the fond exasperation that he hadn't felt in such a long time. "By getting his head chopped off?"

For a moment, Merlin's hands stilled before he lifted the shirt out of the stream and wrung it out. Arthur watched him in silence, wondering whether he'd said something wrong, but then he realized that Merlin was most likely worried sick about that. Merlin and Gwaine were friends, after all.

Arthur sighed in exasperation at his own rash words, but before he got the chance to take them back, Merlin turned around to face him until his knee, which had been pressed to Arthur's thigh, dug painfully into the fleshy part of his hip. "Well, he's trying," Merlin said, his voice wobbling a little with residual emotion, but his gaze skittered across Arthur's features as though he was surprised to suddenly find himself so close to him.

His breath drifted over Arthur's cheeks like a caress, and although Arthur's mouth went dry at the sensation, he didn't pull back, because unlike in the forest, Merlin was completely himself here. Arthur thought he saw the rapid flutter of his pulse through the translucent skin on his neck, but Merlin didn't move, didn't lean back or laugh the tension away.

He licked his lips, like his mouth had gone just as dry as Arthur's, and Arthur found his gaze helplessly transfixed by the peek of Merlin's tongue. "It's strange though, how we all seem to be _trying_ to accomplish something."

A memory of the previous day floated to the front of his mind, and Arthur remembered his own words in the clearing, when he'd told Merlin that he was struggling to understand. It felt faint and far away although it had been barely a day ago, blurred by the trappings of heat that curled around his hammering heart. His voice was barely above a whisper, but he still asked, "What are you trying to do, then?"

He almost regretted his words when Merlin's features twisted, a familiar mix of sadness and guilt flickering through his eyes. But then Merlin took a deep, steadying breath, and didn't look down although Arthur knew that he wanted to. "Trying not to hide," he replied, the words little more but sighs, but Arthur still heard him, could guess at the words almost before they fell from his lips. "To figure this out."

Merlin's hands were icy and wet when they suddenly came up to cup his face, like he thought Arthur might bolt; and Arthur had just opened his mouth in indignation, about to insist that he would do no such thing, when Merlin kissed him.

The combination of cold hands and the warm, wet heat of Merlin's lips on his shocked him into motion. Before Arthur's thoughts could catch up, the tension in his gut snapped like a thread and he was licking into Merlin's mouth, greedily chasing the taste he found there, his hands coming up to fist in Merlin's sun-warmed hair.

With a quiet, throaty sound, Merlin leaned into him, a jolt of heat zapping down Arthur's spine when Merlin's teeth briefly sunk into his lower lip. It had happened so quickly that Arthur hadn't gotten the chance to second-guess himself, but even if he had, any doubts and reservations would have been chased away by how fiercely Merlin kissed him back. It was like he'd been waiting, holding back and keeping his distance, and now the wave of pent-up desire spilled over the edges of his control.

Still, Arthur couldn't even remember why he should care that it was Merlin who coaxed his lips into parting, Merlin's hands that tipped his head back for a better angle, Merlin's tongue that plundered his mouth like they'd never done anything else. Arthur pawed uselessly at his shirt, trying to get him even closer, and Merlin chuckled, the carefree sound heavy with longing.

There was no one to see them, after all—no one to witness the way Arthur gasped when Merlin ran his fingers through his hair and tugged unexpectedly, golden strands peeking out between his slender fingers. Merlin accidentally kneed Arthur in the stomach when he climbed into his lap, all gangly limbs and sharp angles, and they both chuckled breathlessly.

The grass felt soft and springy under his head when he allowed Merlin to gently press him down, and if Arthur was content to simply lie back with Merlin's weight on top of him instead of rolling them over, no one was around to see that either.

 

 

In the late afternoon, Merlin watched the long, graceful arcs of folded steel reflect the sunlight from his resting place under a large oak, his fingers idly sifting through the long grass.

The familiar clang of swords had lured him down to Grænn's well-stocked armory earlier, and he'd stepped out into the slowly lengthening shadows to the training grounds. He hadn't been all that surprised to see Gwaine and Leon beat each other with borrowed swords and matching expressions of glee, spurred on by the encouraging cheers of the others. The knights had spent such a long time doing nothing but trudging through an enchanted forest, and they all seemed glad of the chance to blow off some steam and get back into the swing of training.

Feeling slightly tired, Merlin had quietly made his way over to the huge, weather-beaten hulk of an oak tree that stood just off to the side, and gratefully sat down to lean against its sun-warmed trunk. It had been an entire day since he'd last had to beat back the forest's incessant unearthing pull on his mind, but Merlin still felt oddly sore, in a way he couldn't have explained to anyone even if he'd been asked. Now, though, the treeline didn't loom threateningly close to his peripheral vision—it was just there, looking for all the world like ordinary trees.

In this strange, magic-free bubble that seemed to exist around the house, it was easy for him to slowly replenish the drained reserves of his energy, to just let himself rest for a while in the welcoming shade, the oak bowing its branches over him like a protective canopy. He was well aware of the fact that the primal, unearthly magic was just out of reach—but he still felt _safe_ , tucked away from the rest of the world, the forest standing guard at the edges of Grænn's property like a battalion of ancient, battle-hardened soldiers.

Merlin watched through half-lidded eyes as Leon and Gwaine finished their duel, and Elyan stepped up to take Gwaine's place, Gwaine swaggering over to Arthur. His breathing was fast but controlled as he brushed back his sweat-slicked hair so Merlin could see his predatory grin. True to form, Arthur didn't waste any time in stepping up to the challenge, experimentally rotating his wrist to get a better feel of his borrowed sword. They had left their daggers and knives in the armory, and Merlin smiled absently at the thought that Arthur might ask him to polish them later.

The memory of the last time he'd been allowed to do that was hazy around the edges, washed out like an old, weathered canvas. He still remembered the roughness of Arthur's voice— _"Get them clean"_ —and the uncertainty in his eyes that not even his clenched jaw had been able to hide. And he recalled the surge of emotion that had welled up in him, unasked for but as uncontrollable as the tide, at the fact that Arthur let him have this gift once more, the privilege of being allowed to handle his weapons again.

Unbidden, his mind latched on to what had happened earlier today, and Merlin felt his cheeks heat up a little at the thought that he'd obviously been allowed to handle more than just his prince's daggers. Even the memory of Arthur's kiss-bruised lips on his was enough to send a small shock of heat down his spine, and Merlin closed his eyes to the sounds of cheering and the clanging of metal on metal, allowing himself to remember.

"We should go back," Arthur had said, breathlessly, looking even dizzier than Merlin felt when he gazed down at him. His eyes had been wide and dazed and as blue as shards of the sky, golden hair tangling with the grass where Merlin's fingers hadn't entwined in the soft strands. Something heavy and primal pulsed through Merlin's veins with each quickened thud of his heart, a tingle that stirred up a slow, tightening heat in his groin.

It had taken all of his self-control not to climb fully on top of Arthur and let his hands travel down to the laces of his breeches. But there'd been a certain measure of caution darkening Arthur's gaze, too, and so Merlin had torn his gaze away and shifted to let him sit up. The prince was right, after all—anyone could have walked past and seen them, one of the knights or Grænn's servants or, heaven forbid, Grænn himself.

They'd straightened their rumpled clothes and smoothed down their hair in silence, heavy with promised meaning. Arthur had excused himself to go look for the knights, and Merlin had carried his basket back up to the mansion, all the while trying to gather his flitting, unfocused thoughts and forget the burn of frustrated longing at the base of his spine. He'd thought of finding a clothesline to hang up their laundry, but then he'd ran into two of Grænn's servants. He'd fled to his and Arthur's room, and just deposited the basket of wet clothes there with the vague intention of coming back to hang it up later when the hallways were clear of creepy servants.

Letting out a long sigh, Merlin opened his eyes again, squinting a little to let them adjust to the sunlight. Elyan and Lancelot were both trying to sneak past Arthur's defenses now, until Gwaine darted forward to catch a blow that had been meant for the prince with his shield, pivoting on his heel to stand beside Arthur and even out the fight. Even from this distance, Merlin saw Gwaine's cocky grin and the glare Arthur gave him, and he looked beyond them just in time to see Leon and Percival conceal identical smiles.

A shadow detached itself from the treeline, advancing towards the mansion through a scattered copse of beech trees, and it took Merlin a moment to recognize Ragnelle. Her skirts trailed behind her, slightly torn and grass-stained in places. She was carrying a basket filled with shiny fruit, her fingers stained with dark sap, and Merlin guessed that she'd been picking berries in the woods.

Merlin sat up a bit straighter, the tree's rough bark snagging on his shirt as he shifted his weight; he hadn't seen Ragnelle since Grænn had introduced her to them as his wife after breakfast. Not for the first time, Merlin resolved to talk to her at some point before they left, if only just to remind her that far away from Grænn's mansion, she still had a brother who was worried about her—although he knew instinctively that it wouldn't take much reminding. She'd just stood in the shadows behind Grænn, but she had still seemed tense and wary in the dining hall, like she was fervently wishing herself to be far, far away.

Ragnelle didn't stop when she hurried past the knights, but Merlin saw her glance at them despite her demurely lowered eyes. An unreadable expression flickered across her pale face, too quick to decipher, but Merlin thought she looked cautious for a moment, almost scared. Then she dipped her head in greeting, quickening her steps as if to avoid getting roped into a conversation.

Suddenly, though, a large hand lightly caught her elbow, and it took Merlin a dumbfounded moment to realize that Percival had crossed the training grounds to stand next to her. His sudden appearance startled her into looking up, her small figure dwarfed by Percival's bulk; he had his back to Merlin, and they were too far away for him to hear what the knight said to her. But it was fairly clear that Percival had offered to carry the basket for her when he gently tugged it out of her grasp and walked ahead towards the mansion's back door.

It took Ragnelle only a moment to get over her surprise and follow, the astonishment on her features melting into confused discomfort, like she couldn't quite believe that a knight of Camelot had just shown her chivalry. She hitched up her skirts, hurrying to catch up with Percival's longer strides, and Merlin saw her gaze rest on his back before she lowered it to the ground again, her eyes filling for the briefest moment with inexplicable regret.

Merlin was still staring after them when Percival cordially held the door open for her and disappeared into the shady hallway as well, the door falling shut behind his back. The odd interlude struck him as just as strange as it had been unexpected—Percival wasn't one to interrupt a long awaited sparring session just so he could hold open doors for women.

A glance at the knights revealed that they had finished their fight for the moment, and that they'd witnessed the strange exchange as well. Arthur's eyebrows were steadily climbing towards his hairline as he exchanged a probing look with Elyan, like he expected the other knight to explain what he'd just seen. Lancelot just shrugged when Arthur's questioning gaze came to rest on him as well, still seeming too preoccupied with training to care much for the odd scene that had just taken place.

"What the hell was that?" Gwaine said, loudly enough for Merlin to hear. He shook his sweaty hair out of his face with a casual toss of his head, his smile ever-widening, and Merlin half expected him to burst into incredulous laughter at any moment.

Percival was in for a round of exaggerated teasing tonight, if the mirth glittering in Gwaine's eyes was anything to go by. But then again, Gwaine was probably just glad for the chance to think of something else than the ever-present reason why they were here, even if it meant that his fellow knight was going to get ribbed mercilessly.

They stayed outside until the fading light of day made training too dangerous. Merlin stood up at some point, walking a few aimless circles around the oak to ward off the slight chill in the air—sitting around all afternoon had made him long for the fire that was hopefully roaring in the dining hall's fireplace by now. From a distance, he watched the others lower their swords, the breeze carrying bits and pieces of their conversation over to Merlin.

He had just begun to walk towards them when movement caught his eye, a shadow melting out of the twilight much like Ragnelle had earlier—but its movements seemed too fluid, the dark silhouette gliding across the ground without any of the tell-tale bobbing that footsteps would have caused. Merlin froze, a primal, hostile sense of suspicion awakening deep within his mind as his heart suddenly thudded close to his throat. Beneath the cover of the fading light, he raised a hand and shifted forward almost unconsciously—he was still a few paces away, but he knew that his aim would be unerring.

The figure stepped out of a tall birch's shadow, and Merlin sucked in a sharp breath when he recognized one of Grænn's servants, letting his hand fall back to his side. Despite their host's jovial friendliness, Merlin didn't think that Grænn would have taken too kindly to having one of his men incinerated by a jumpy sorcerer. It could just have been his imagination, but for a moment Merlin thought the servant glanced at him, a narrow-eyed coyness briefly flickering across his features before his expression smoothed out again, like he knew exactly what Merlin had been close to doing.

"My lord has returned, and dinner is served," he said to Arthur in a clear, carrying voice, bowing to the prince. "He bids you join him in the dining hall."

"Of course," Arthur replied briskly; to Merlin's surprise, he sounded wary too, like he'd experienced the same flash of distrust that had zapped through Merlin's mind. The servant went still, looking at him with dark, hooded eyes until Arthur gestured at him impatiently. "We'll be right in."

The picture of submission, the servant bowed again, wordlessly, and shifted aside to clear the way for them. Merlin seized the chance to catch up with the others with a couple of long strides, nearly bumping into Elyan in his eagerness to get himself between Arthur and the servant. It wasn't exactly a conscious or even rational decision, and he had no idea what had unsettled him so much about this little scene. All Merlin knew was that a warning bell was still tolling insistently in his head, and he wasn't one to ignore such a strong gut feeling.

The walk back to the mansion barely took a minute; before long, light and warmth spilled out into the yard through the half-open back door. Out of some unnamed inclination, Merlin looked back over his shoulder just before he ducked through the doorway, and was surprised to see the servant still standing where they'd left him in the middle of the training grounds. His tousled hair shone glossy black in the fading daylight, and he seemed to be staring up at them, head cocked in an oddly birdlike gesture of blank curiosity.

 _Birdlike?_ Merlin repeated to himself, puzzled, and shrugged the thought away after a moment. He took a deep breath and followed Gwaine into the house, struggling to store his suspiciousness away for later—they would have to sit through a doubtlessly tense dinner with Grænn in a minute, and now was not the time to grow overly distrustful of his servants.

The hallways were well-lit by candles and torches, the warm flickering light leading the way to the dining hall—with all the old shields and colorful draperies adorning the walls, Merlin recognized some of the corridors from this morning. The faint, faraway scent of grilled meat got closer the further they advanced, and they all sped up their steps, noticing only now how hungry they were.

If he hadn't been walking behind Gwaine, Merlin would have missed it completely. They had just rounded a corner—Gwaine was trailing behind the others a bit, his attention sidetracked by a glinting pair of heavy spears mounted to the wall. Then the others were suddenly out of sight; a figure stepped out from beyond the corner, and once again, it took Merlin a moment to recognize Ragnelle.

She had changed out of the well-worn dress and into a more fitting attire. Although the bejeweled dark blue dress would have been more becoming of a princess than of an eccentric lord's wife, it looked strange on her, especially because she wore no jewelry and hadn't made any effort to tame her hair. Still, she looked determined, even if no less uncomfortable than she had this afternoon, as she dipped a quick curtsy, murmuring, "Sir Gwaine," to get his attention.

Gwaine stopped short, blinking in astonishment at her sudden apparition, but this time Ragnelle didn't look down, meeting his gaze with surprising boldness instead. Her eyes were focused completely on Gwaine—Merlin realized that she hadn't even seen him yet, and before he could second-guess his own reaction, he had already stepped back around the corner, ducking behind the stone wall to watch them without being seen. It felt weird to slink back into the shadows like that—Ragnelle didn't strike him as an evil sorceress who was out for all of their blood, but if experience had taught him anything, it was that one could never be too careful.

For a long, tense moment, neither of them said anything, and the earlier burst of courage seemed to desert Ragnelle now. Her gaze skittered across the draperies and the spears in search of something to hold on to, her hands clenching in the rich folds of her dress. Merlin saw that her fingers looked red and raw, like she'd scrubbed them with all her might to remove the berry juice, but there was still a blueish hue to her skin.

"I hope you have enjoyed your stay at my husband's house so far," she said at last, in a somewhat clumsy attempt at small talk. A blotchy, mottled red crawled up her neck and into her cheeks, and Merlin saw her chest heave around two deep breaths as she tried to calm herself and overcome her embarrassment. It was the first time he'd heard her speak, and he thought to himself that her voice was nice, a warm alto instead of the high giggling timbres of the ladies of Camelot's court.

Gwaine just stared at her for a moment, with raised eyebrows as though he was just seconds away from asking, _what's that supposed to mean?_ or, alternatively, _are_ you _seriously coming on to me? Have you looked in the mirror?_ But then some remainders of manners kicked in, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, of course, it's been— wonderful," he replied, flashing her a quick, easy grin that tugged an absent smile onto Merlin's features. He knew that Gwaine had noticed her nervousness, and was doing his best to alleviate it in his own way, although he still looked puzzled.

"Good," Ragnelle mumbled, not looking appeased at all. She was tense from head to toe, her shoulders a rigid line beneath the flowing folds of her dress. It seemed a struggle to hold her head high and lock gazes with Gwaine once more, but she still managed it, swallowing down what seemed to be a mixture of desperation and embarrassment. "I— I have something for you."

She shuffled closer, almost tripping over the hem of her long skirts, and Merlin clenched his hands into fists to keep himself from raising them, the remainders of his distrust flaring up again. She wasn't like the servants, he reminded himself sternly—as far as he could tell, she wasn't even magical, and she was so obviously uncomfortable that he couldn't bear to see her as a threat anymore. Still, there was just something so profoundly odd about this entire situation, a deep sense of danger, of _wrongness_ that clawed at Merlin's instincts.

Gwaine gave her a curious look and leaned towards her, most likely thinking that she'd unclench one of her hands and offer whatever she wanted to give him in an outstretched palm. But then she darted forward, helpless determination in every line of her uneven features, and before Gwaine could jerk back, she had pressed her lips to his in a chaste, clumsy kiss.

Merlin's mouth fell open on its own accord, and he nearly gasped in surprise, although he managed to choke back the sound. It was so unexpected that even Gwaine seemed at a loss for anything to do, and so he just held still save for the way his eyes widened in surprise, until Ragnelle stepped back again.

She'd stood on her tiptoes to reach Gwaine, and she looked even smaller now, hunching her shoulders around her lowered head as though she was expecting a stern rebuke any second. But no matter what Gwaine thought about their host's wife randomly showing up in corridors and kissing him, he didn't look like he was about to snap at her or even let her down gently. He just stared down at her, his hand going to his mouth like he still couldn't believe what she'd done.

"What—," he started, and Ragnelle flinched, startled out of the tense silence by the single word. Her face seemed to glow in the candlelight with the sheer force of her blush, and she seemed unable to look him in the eye again, studying the floor between his boots instead. Before Gwaine could say anything else, Ragnelle had already turned on her heel and hurried back the way she'd come, down a deserted, only dimly lit hallway that Merlin knew for sure did not lead to the dining hall.

Gwaine stared after her for a long moment, and if Merlin hadn't been so taken aback himself, he would have come out of his hiding place just to tease him about the utterly dumbfounded look on his face. As it was, he stayed just out of sight beyond the corner until he heard Gwaine's footsteps pick up again, in a slow, faltering rhythm like he was still not sure what had just happened. Then Merlin caught up with him as quietly as he could, trying to pretend that he'd just been lagging behind. But even if Gwaine noticed his sudden presence, he didn't mention it, and Merlin couldn't exactly blame him.

When they reached the dining hall, the mere sight of the lavish dinner was almost enough to make Merlin forget all about the strange interlude. His mouth watered almost painfully as the scent of roasted meat and fruit, spiced wine and sweet cider hit him like a gust of wind. Candlelight lit the hall, along with a roaring fire that crackled merrily in the fireplace—the last of the daylight seeped in through the small window at the western front of the house.

The furniture was the same, but the room still seemed transformed in comparison to what it had been like in the morning. There was something secretive hidden between the shadowed folds of the curtains, the barest whisper of warmth in the air, in the flickering shadows that danced across the high domed ceiling.

Arthur had already sat down across from Grænn, with Leon to his left and the rest of the knights scattered around the large table. His goblet of wine sat untouched before him, and his eyes skimmed the room like he was looking for something, coming to a rest only when he spotted Merlin in the doorway. The firelight lit up his hair as he straightened up, catching and holding Merlin's gaze with his own as he gestured towards the chair next to his. Taking a deep breath to refocus his thoughts, Merlin found himself smiling suddenly, and crossed the room to Arthur's side.

The taste of the food was every bit as good as the promising odors that had permeated the hallway. His first mouthful of honeyed venison made Merlin's eyes close in bliss, and then he started shoveling food into his mouth in a way that belied every bit of manners that Arthur had ever managed to beat into his country bumpkin head. The food was still so hot that it burned his tongue, but he didn't care, chewing thoroughly around every mouthful of spiced, juicy meat.

Conversation was kept to the barest necessities while they ate, and the others seemed to enjoy the food just as much as Merlin did, if the way they dug in was anything to go by. When he was halfway through his second helping, a corner of his mind that wasn't preoccupied with eating noticed that Ragnelle was nowhere to be seen, and that Percival's gaze kept lingering on the empty chair next to Grænn's like a callused hand catching on fabric. But Merlin didn't want to think about that now, not when every drop of steaming honeyed broth seemed to taste better than the last, and so he just focused on eating for the moment.

Although they were all varying degrees of stuffed, no one turned down at least one slice of berry pie when dessert was brought in. With still-warm dough melting on his tongue, Merlin closed his eyes to blissfully savor the rich, slightly sour flavor of the berries that pierced the sweetness of the dough. At least now he knew why Ragnelle had been picking berries this afternoon. He felt like his stomach might burst any moment, but he still finished off all of his thick slice of pie, not wanting to let any of it go to waste.

Grænn seemed pleased that his guests were enjoying the food so much, his green eyes glittering with amusement when he invited them to relocate at the collection of plush, embroidered armchairs around the fireplace. Arthur stood up and stretched, looking slightly put out when he realized just how much all of them had eaten—he frowned in Grænn's general direction, and Merlin knew that he was thinking that this would be a perfect moment for their host to attack them, sleepy and sated as they were with food and drink. Grænn didn't look at all inclined to do anything of the sort, though. He was bent over the fireplace, stoking the fire back to its full crackling heat.

Gwaine didn't sway when he got up, but the merry flush on his face was enough of a giveaway for Merlin to realize that he'd had quite a lot of wine. Apparently he had used everyone's distraction with the food to get quietly but insistently drunk, not that Merlin blamed him. It was the first time they'd had any decent wine since they had entered the forest, after all.

Merlin leaned back in his chair, watching as Gwaine sauntered over to the bookshelves that lined the far wall, his gaze resting appreciatively on the decorative swords mounted above the fireplace. They framed an ancient-looking battered shield, painted in dark, faded colors. It could just have been a trick of the flickering light, but Merlin found himself curiously unable to make out the coat of arms.

Percival and Lancelot had walked over to the fireplace as well. Sleepy contentment thickened the air, but there was an undercurrent of tension there as well, some expectant thrill in the atmosphere that didn't allow Merlin to quietly doze off like his body demanded him to do. Arthur and Leon seemed to feel it too—they were talking in hushed tones, looking at their host every-so-often, their eyes awake and alert and unclouded by alcohol. What they didn't notice, though, was that Grænn kept sneaking glances at them as well, eyes gone narrow and amused like he was entertaining a private joke.

With an uneasy feeling settling into the pit of his stomach, he watched Grænn's smile widen, and wasn't at all surprised when he set the poker aside and turned around to face them again. "Sir Gwaine," he spoke up, quietly, but some undefinable commanding quality in his voice still hushed all conversation in the room. "Surely you remember the little game we agreed on this morning?"

Interrupted in his contemplation of an ancient tome, Gwaine carefully put the book back on its shelf before he turned around to face their host. To Merlin's surprise, he still looked relaxed and completely at ease, unlike Arthur and Leon, who were looking between Grænn and Gwaine with matching expressions of wariness.

Gwaine took his time walking over to them, probably going for a dramatic effect just as much as he wanted to keep his gait steady. "Oh, I do," he replied lightly, a slow smile spreading across his features. The glint in his eyes made Merlin sit up a bit straighter—he knew that look, and it usually heralded mayhem of some sort.

Grænn didn't seem to notice the abrupt change in the atmosphere. He gestured at the table where the remains of their dinner were still laid out, waiting for one of the strange servants to take them away. "Today I have brought you this dinner," he said, the formal words posing an odd contrast to the easy, jovial smile that was still lighting up his features. "I hunted this deer far into the heart of the forest until my arrow at last found its mark. I hope that you enjoyed tasting its blood."

In an uncharacteristic display of courtly manners, Gwaine bowed in response, and Percival gave him an appreciative look when he didn't so much as stumble with the sudden movement. Merlin's heart sank when he caught sight of the mischievousness still lodged in the corners of Gwaine's smile.

For the first time, Grænn seemed to realize that his guest wasn't honoring his words with quite the proper kind of decorum, but he didn't appear angry—he just looked at Gwaine for a long moment, his gaze calm and calculating. Merlin found himself swallowing hard against the apprehension that tightened his chest, and nearly flinched when Grænn inquired, "May I ask, then, what you have won during the day?"

"Of course, sir," Gwaine answered, still with the same nonchalant ease. But there was something akin to determination in his movements as he stepped around the cluster of chairs and closer to Grænn.

He was still grinning, his eyes bright with wine and wicked cheer, and a second later, Merlin understood why. Stepping right up into their host's personal space, Gwaine crushed his lips to Grænn's in a fierce, insistent kiss.

Merlin felt his jaw drop on its own accord, but he couldn't quite summon the presence of mind to close his mouth again. On the other side of the table, Elyan quietly choked on the last of his wine; Leon just stared at the odd scene in dull surprise, like this was exactly the kind of outrageous foolhardiness that he'd expected of Gwaine.

Hazily, Merlin thought that Ragnelle hadn't kissed Gwaine quite like _that_. She hadn't moved her hands to cradle his face with a gentle but insistent hold, and she certainly hadn't plunged her tongue into his mouth as if to chase away the taste of wine there. An eternity seemed to pass before Gwaine broke the kiss and stepped back, and it was only then that Merlin realized he'd been _staring_ at them, and felt an uneasy blush crawl up his neck.

"That's what I have received today," Gwaine said with perfect politeness, his voice a little rough, eyes a bit brighter than before, but his movements were steady when he let go of Grænn and stepped back.

From the corner of his eye, Merlin saw Arthur's features draw tight with tension as he half-rose from his armchair. His eyes had hardened into battle-ready steel, and Merlin knew that he expected Grænn to lash out at Gwaine any moment now, either punching him in the face for his insolence or leaping over to the table to grab a discarded knife.

But after a long, stunned moment of silence, Grænn threw his head back and _laughed_ , an infectious, deep sound of honest mirth that startled all of them. Percival stared at their host like he feared the man had lost his mind, and Merlin couldn't blame him. Of all the ways Merlin had thought he might react, this genuine happiness had been the one farthest from his mind.

"Well played, good sir," Grænn exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with barely-contained amusement as he pounded Gwaine on the back as if Gwaine had just passed some sort of extraordinary test. "I see you are a far more worthy contestant than I ever dreamed you would be!"

For a moment, Gwaine's smile turned sly, and Merlin knew that he wanted to say, _Dreamed of me, have you?_ But then rational thought seemed to kick in for the first time tonight—or maybe he'd caught sight of Arthur's unforgiving glare over Grænn's shoulder—because he just nodded in response.

Grænn reached for his and Gwaine's goblets, abandoned on the table, and moved to refill them, claiming that he had never had such an entertaining guest in all the time he'd lived in the forest. Merlin released a long, slow breath, allowing the tension to flow out of his stiff shoulders with the movement. He felt faintly nauseous now that the intense moment was over, and tried not to think of how horribly wrong this could have gone. Grænn could have felt genuinely insulted—he might have thrown them out into the night. Or he could have summoned his scary servants to flay all of them alive for the offense.

Wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers, Merlin found himself suddenly catching Arthur's eye across the room, and saw his own thoughts mirrored in the prince's tight, drawn features. There was a clang as Gwaine and Grænn's goblets clinked and they downed they their wine in far too few gulps. They wore matching jovial smiles when they put their goblets down again, but although the tension had dissipated from the air, Merlin still felt jittery inside.

It would be a long time until he'd forget the long, tense moment of silence when he'd thought Grænn would strike out at Gwaine, and looking at the tense set of Arthur's jaw, Merlin got the feeling that he was thinking the same thing.

 

 

The bad side of hangovers, Gwaine thought the next day, was that they didn't care that you only had about two days left to live. They were just _there._

He was sitting on the sun-warmed steps that led down to Grænn's backyard, squinting through the afternoon sunlight at where Percival and Arthur were engaging in one hell of a duel, kicking up clouds of dust in the training grounds. He'd sat down because his stomach had given a slow, unsettling lurch at the mere thought of joining the others, and now he was well and truly stuck. If he walked down to the training grounds, the others would expect him to grab a sword and join in, but if he went back inside to the blessedly cool, shadowy guest wing, he'd be in for a round of merciless teasing later.

"Are you _sure_ you're alright?" Merlin asked from beside him, for the fifth time in as many minutes. He'd sat down next to Gwaine half an hour ago, under the pretense of going through their coats to see if anything needed mending.

Each clang of borrowed swords sent a bright fissure of pain through Gwaine's skull, centering in a dull throb around his left eye. Somehow, he suspected that Percival and Arthur were letting their swords meet as often as possible just to annoy him. But he figured he'd had it coming—he'd been unfazed by the stern glare Arthur had been fixing him with for the better part of the day, probably in memory of last night's dinner, and now the prince had resorted to more drastic measures to make an impression on him.

"Yes, Merlin," Gwaine droned, digging the heel of his hand into his left eye socket until he saw tiny stars. He waved the other hand expansively, indicating the gently swaying trees. "All of this... _light_ is going to make my eyes fall out, and my guts feel like they've shriveled up and died, but I'm perfectly fine."

Merlin snorted, a sound of surprised, reluctant mirth. To be fair, he'd sounded like he truly meant every ounce of tentative concern that had colored his tone, like he'd really wanted an honest answer. But Gwaine wasn't one to... _unburden_ his hungover mind, or whatever it was that Merlin was gently trying to coax him into. He was the kind of person that shrugged things off, a laugh in store for pretty much everything that life decided to throw at him, and a vicious headache wasn't going to change that now.

It had been so easy to deflect Merlin's concern at the inn in Cogeltone. For some inexplicable reason, he'd still felt like he would come out on top of everything back then—he'd hardly spared a thought to his compact with the Green Knight, more occupied with sampling the village's breweries and tagging along on their journey. Now, though, the thought of the challenge seemed to lurk behind every corner of his mind, a continuous, inescapable nagging at the back of his head.

"So," Merlin said, mercifully cutting short that train of thought. He sounded awkward but determined, although he pretended to be picking at the seams of what looked like Elyan's threadbare coat. "What do you think the Green Chapel will be like?"

"Merlin," Gwaine groaned tiredly, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. "Your attempts at subtlety are not working. Have I taught you nothing at all?"

"You certainly never taught me to be subtle," Merlin pointed out, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile. He still wasn't looking at Gwaine, probably to... give him space, or something of that sort. Gwaine hid a grimace and was rewarded with another stab of pain directly behind his left eye.

"Seriously, though," Merlin said, not letting himself get distracted no matter how much Gwaine wished he would. He glanced over at him and immediately wished he hadn't—Merlin was fixing him with an earnest stare, his blue eyes dark with concern. "How are you holding up?"

Sighing loudly, Gwaine rubbed his hands across his face in an attempt to keep his eyelids from drooping. "I don't—," he started, and raked his fingers through his hair in frustration, wincing when his temples gave a protesting throb. "I'm tired and hungover and— _please_ just go talk to your pretty prince if you want to have deep, soul-searching conversations about impending doom."

Merlin flushed at the mention of Arthur—not much, but enough to be noticeable—and Gwaine felt the not-hungover part of his mind perk up with interest. He might get some good teasing ammunition if he probed further, but right then he didn't really feel like it, because Merlin mostly looked _confused_ , rather than flustered. There was no way to deny the twinge of guilt that went through him at the sight. Gwaine _knew_ he was being a bit too snappish, especially since this was _Merlin_ he was talking to, who was his friend and just wanted to help.

Gwaine let out a slow breath and rubbed at his eyes again, struggling to ignore the incessant pounding ache that had started up in his forehead. "I just keep thinking that this is not how it was supposed to go," he said, a bit startled when his voice came out rough and gravelly. He rested his chin on his folded hands and tried to alleviate the tension in the air with a chuckle, but it sounded mirthless even to his own ears. "I never thought I'd die nobly upholding the chivalric code."

To his credit, Merlin didn't immediately reassure him that he wouldn't die. He just nodded, silently accepting the uncomfortable confession for what it was, pulling at the sleeve of the coat in his lap to check for tears in the fabric. Down in the backyard, Percival and Arthur were taking a break, wiping their sweaty faces with plush white towels that a servant had brought out earlier, and Gwaine couldn't help a sudden, fierce stab of envy. Hungover or not, he should have been down there with them, instead of lounging about and moping about his drastically shortened lifespan. It wasn't like him at all, but that didn't mean he could just switch off the way his stomach clenched at the thought, sending a shock of nausea through him.

"You wouldn't have to die," Merlin said at last, quietly, leaning a bit closer to Gwaine to avoid being overheard by anyone else. He didn't pretend to busy himself with the coat anymore—he was staring right at Gwaine, determination shining in his eyes, but it wasn't quite the inspired, passionate look that Gwaine was so used to seeing from him. "If I could— _do_ something to get you out of this bargain—"

It was a fiercer sort of resolve, Gwaine suddenly realized—more unyielding, hardened by the absolute conviction that there actually _was_ something he could do. He wanted to shake his head and pat Merlin on the back, thank him for how valiantly he was trying to cheer him up. But all of Gwaine's thoughts had stuttered to a stop at the look in Merlin's eyes, and he could only stare at his friend in stunned surprise.

Merlin's throat worked as he swallowed, and he quickly glanced around before he leaned even closer, their shoulders brushing. "Listen," he went on, in a near whisper now, as if he hadn't had Gwaine's full attention before. "I— I wish I could tell you everything, but—"

He took a deep breath to steady himself, uncertainty flickering across his features, quick but harrowing, like a summer storm. Gwaine frowned and opened his mouth, almost reaching out a hand to put it on Merlin's shoulder, ready to tell him that he didn't want to hear anything that Merlin didn't feel ready to tell him, whatever it might be.

"There's something that the Green Knight needs me to do for him," Merlin explained, interrupting Gwaine even before he could speak. The old, faded pain left his gaze as swiftly as it had come, pushed away to the back of Merlin's mind with the kind of ease that came with practice. "I can't tell you what it is, but— I could promise him to do it, under the condition that he releases you from your promise."

His heart suddenly pounding hard in his throat, Gwaine just looked at Merlin for a long minute, letting silence stretch between them. Unbidden, an incredulous hope welled up in him before he could squash it. It would be so laughably easy to say yes—Merlin would understand, and more than that, he _already_ understood, if the concern that still shimmered in his gaze was anything to go by.

Merlin wouldn't judge him. Merlin _knew_ him, and even though Gwaine had been trying his best to hide it, his friend was probably well aware of the fact that it was getting harder and harder for him to keep his thoughts from circling around his promise to the Green Knight. He had to know that the only thing that kept the mounting dread at bay was the tight hold Gwaine had on his thoughts, reinforced by alcohol whenever he could get it. And all of that could end right now, Gwaine realized—he could take Merlin up on his offer, he'd think of a story to tell the others, and nobody else would ever have to know.

Nobody but the Green Knight, Gwaine realized, with a sickening lurch of his stomach. The Green Knight would know if Gwaine let Merlin use whatever advantage he had as a bargaining chip on his behalf, and more than that, he would _remember_. They might not see each other ever again, but something told Gwaine that the Green Knight would never forget him, just like Gwaine was sure that he'd remember the man's ageless, piercing green eyes until the day he died. And if there was one thing that made Gwaine's skin crawl and his very being recoil in disgust, it was the thought of being remembered as a _coward_.

Sweat was beading on his brow, chilling his forehead with the slight breeze that ruffled his hair. Merlin hadn't said anything to hurry along Gwaine's decision—he was just waiting, waiting and watching. Sunlight spilled over his impassive face, his skin almost seeming to glow in the gentle afternoon light. There was nothing at all in his expression that might have swayed Gwaine in favor of one option or the other, and for that, Gwaine was grateful.

With a kind of dull surprise that told him that his subconscious mind had known this all along, Gwaine realized that he couldn't— _wouldn't_ —do it. It made no sense to him, the feeling of revulsion that washed over him when he imagined it—Merlin sneaking away from the mansion in the middle of the night, going to the Green Knight to plead for Gwaine's life. He should have seized the opportunity to save himself, hell, he should have _welcomed_ it by now, thanked Merlin wholeheartedly and told him that he owed him big time.

But he couldn't cheat his way out of this situation. He was the wanderer, the outcast, the reckless scoundrel whose only priority was to live life to the fullest and never turn down a goblet of mead, the self-serving jester who would say or do anything to save his hide. But whether he liked it or not, the months in Camelot had forged him into something else as well, something _more_ , and he couldn't run away now. He'd given his word that he would face the Green Knight's challenge. He had _promised_ , and if there was one thing he knew about Sir Gwaine of Camelot, it was that his word was his bond.

Moreover, he couldn't understand anymore why plain old Gwaine had ever thought that promises were made to be broken.

He swallowed hard against the obstruction in his throat, and it took all of his sapped energy to meet Merlin's concerned gaze. "No," he said, hoarsely—and it wasn't much, it was just a word that belied the tumultuous thoughts that were tumbling through his head like scattered leaves.

It was just a word, but to his own surprise, he felt his stomach settle and his heartbeat slow down. The air wasn't quite as thick in his lungs, his blood not as hot and sluggish, and he took a deep breath that felt oddly like his first. He could smell the summery scent of crushed grass and sun-warmed earth, of moss and bark and everything that made up the forest around them. Nothing was safe—hell, _he_ wasn't safe and he knew it. He would still have to face the Green Knight, but Gwaine's chest felt lighter, his head not as stuffed and weary, like that single "no" alone had been enough to strengthen him.

Merlin let out a sigh, deflating visibly as he dropped his gaze back to the coat lying forgotten on his lap. "I thought so," he murmured, a sad kind of conviction in his voice that pulled uncomfortably at something deep within Gwaine's chest. But he seemed to have expected that answer, because he didn't argue.

"Thank you," Gwaine said quietly, before he could stop himself. The words were raw with some unnamed emotion, and although Merlin gave him a slightly puzzled look, Gwaine couldn't take them back. Merlin wasn't throwing all of his passionate conviction at him, wasn't even trying to change his mind about this, and Gwaine found himself so grateful that his throat closed up for a moment.

After a pause, Merlin nodded, a tired smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He bumped Gwaine's shoulder with his own, his warm weight lingering there for just a moment before he pulled back again. Gwaine hadn't explained himself, hadn't even really found the words to thank Merlin for his offer yet in the first place, but Merlin understood him anyway.

There wasn't anything else to be said, and so they subsided into silence again. Merlin took out a thin silver needle and a spool of black thread and began to mend a tear in the collar of Elyan's coat. From the way he kept flinching whenever the needle pricked his fingers, Gwaine could tell that his mind wasn't fully focused on his task. But he saw that Merlin was doing his best to hide the look of bleak sorrow that Gwaine had briefly seen in his eyes, and if Merlin could honor his decision, the least Gwaine could do was to to leave him alone when he clearly didn't want to talk any more.

He averted his gaze to the backyard, narrowing his eyes against the sunlight. The knights were taking a break, and judging from the way Arthur had his back turned to the mansion, Gwaine deduced that he'd been watching them from the corner of his eye until just a moment ago. He found himself smiling absently, wondering what the prince had thought—he couldn't have heard their conversation, but he must have seen their thighs touch on the warm stone of the stairs, heads bent closely together.

Making a mental note to keep an eye on Arthur for any other signs of entertaining jealousy, Gwaine shifted his weight away from Merlin, scooting over just a bit. It wouldn't do to aggravate the prince to the point where he might go back to snapping at Merlin on a daily basis just to spite him. There had been a strange shift in his attitude towards his manservant lately—for a while, Gwaine had been suspicious, ready to chalk it up to natural concern about Merlin's strange... illness, or whatever that had been.

But then he'd begun to suspect that there might be something more to it, and by now he was ready to assume that some of the things he had shouted at Arthur about the other night might have pounded their way through his thick skull. The mental image made his smile grow, and he latched on to it, grateful for the respite from the thoughts of his promise to the Green Knight.

"You know," he remarked, keeping his tone casual to show that he didn't mean to steer their conversation back to the murky waters they had just left behind. Merlin hummed to show that he was listening, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as he worked on Elyan's coat. "All we've been talking about is _me,_ " Gwaine stated, wrinkling his nose in mock offense, "but what about you?" He shifted around to sit with his back against the stone balustrade that framed the stairs, squinting into the light to see Merlin more clearly. "You seem to be feeling better than you did yesterday. Or since we entered the forest, really."

Merlin hissed when the needle pricked his thumb, and he quickly stuck his finger into his mouth to suck away the drop of blood. He seemed fully occupied with grimacing at the taste for a moment, and Gwaine waited patiently, settled comfortably against the bricks. Although it had been cast in shadow, he was surprised to find the balustrade just as warm as the steps.

"Yeah," Merlin said, belatedly. He bent over the coat again, but Gwaine didn't miss the flash of apprehension in his eyes, the way his gaze skittered to the side. "I felt... bad before, but now I'm fine."

He flashed a quick smile at him, a smile that seemed to plead with Gwaine not to question him further. His mouth already opened to speak, Gwaine paused as he tried to make sense of what he should do—he hadn't expected Merlin to clam up like this, to get defensive the minute Gwaine brought up the strange ailment he'd been suffering from in the forest. He'd thought it would be a safe topic to talk about, but apparently Merlin didn't think so.

"Well, that's... good," Gwaine replied at last, trying to keep his tone light. Merlin's smile became bland, and he glanced over at the training grounds like he couldn't help himself, like he was hoping for someone to come along and interrupt this conversation. Gwaine frowned, realizing that he didn't like the cornered look on Merlin's face at all, and liked it even less that he had put it there. "I was— worried."

Just like that, Merlin's face fell, and he closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice as hollow as if he'd already said those exact words too many times to count in his life. His shoulders seemed to droop under an impossible weight, and Gwaine watched in alarm as sadness tightened his friend's features. "I never wanted to make you feel bad."

"Hey, no," Gwaine murmured, pitching his voice low so as not to carry, and gently nudged Merlin with his foot, trying for a reassuring smile when Merlin glanced at him, his eyes dark and tired. "None of that. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty." _I'm not Arthur_ , he didn't add, because even he had to admit that the prince had come a long way. "I'm just glad you're better now."

Merlin nodded, looking contrite now, like he was scolding himself for his own reaction—probably scared that he'd given too much away. Gwaine clamped down hard on the concerned questions that wanted to force themselves out of his mouth, and nudged Merlin again, to show that whatever Merlin had given him, he would never use it against him.

He obviously couldn't probe any further now, and settled for watching as Merlin turned back to the coat with even less concentration than before—his fingers were going to be quite sore by the time he was done with it. There was something Merlin wasn't telling him, Gwaine knew that much at least, but what truly bothered him was that Merlin seemed to _want_ to tell him. He knew that look on his face all too well, the weary darkness in his eyes, the held-back secrets in his trembling frown and clenched jaw. He'd seen it countless times ever since his fallout with Arthur so many months ago, but Gwaine had never thought he'd ever see it directed at himself.

The thought made him uncomfortable, his hand itching to place itself on the slightly sunburned back of Merlin's neck, just to reassure him that as far as Gwaine was concerned, there was nothing that Merlin couldn't tell him, nothing he wouldn't want to hear. But something in the bow of Merlin's spine held him back. He didn't know how he knew, but if there was one thing he was sure about, it was that Merlin was far too used to guarding his secrets close to himself. It wasn't the time to poke and prod at him until he spilled them at Gwaine's feet. The right time was something that Merlin needed to figure out for himself, and if Gwaine could help him with backing off a little, he would do it.

He stood up with a fluid motion that lost all its grace when he stumbled against the balustrade, knocked off balance by a wave of dizziness. Clutching his head at the renewed pounding in his skull, Gwaine forced a smile for Merlin, who was staring up at him with a worried look on his face—he'd had too many hangovers in his day to be defeated by one now. And as far as he was concerned, now was as good a time as any to find a couple of gallons of water to drink and get rid of his headache.

Merlin looked a bit confused by his abrupt departure when Gwaine bid him goodbye, but didn't protest; maybe he needed a breather as well. He just watched him go, and the last thing Gwaine saw before the back door swung shut behind him was Merlin turning back to Elyan's coat.

It was markedly cooler inside, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding—only now, Gwaine noticed how much of his discomfort had come from the heat. Blinking to let his eyes adjust to the dim light, he slowly walked down the corridor, the sound of his boots echoing through the empty corridors. Memorizing the way to the dining hall hadn't been an issue last night, since the way had been lit by torches and candles, but now he found it hard to remember where it was.

The house seemed completely deserted. Not even a stray servant was rushing about tending to the draperies or whatever it was they did all day, and Gwaine couldn't even hear faraway sounds of chatter or any other sign of life. He knew that Grænn had gone hunting again, but even with their lord gone for the day, the servants couldn't just have vanished into thin air.

The thought alone was enough to make him step more lightly, trying to make less noise as he advanced further through the hallways, tiny specks of dust dancing in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. Discomfort crawled down his spine, although he told himself that the house's staff was probably outside lounging around in the sun. There was something off about the silence, an expectant crackle in the still afternoon air that he didn't like at all.

His senses sharpened on their own accord, his awareness of his headache receding to the back of his mind with the slow stir of adrenalin in his gut. But even though he stepped more carefully now, he still ran head-first into Ragnelle when she suddenly strode right into his path from a corridor to his left.

Something hard and unyielding hit Gwaine in the stomach even as he reached out instinctively to steady Ragnelle when she stumbled into him. Then he realized that the thing that he'd bumped into was a basket full of wet laundry, tilting precariously in her grasp before she regained her balance.

"Hello there," Gwaine said, too surprised to even summon a smirk at the memory of their last encounter. Ragnelle, on the other hand, seemed to remember it just fine. She didn't appear surprised to see him at all, but the moment their eyes met, a blotchy flush crawled up her neck, staining her pale cheeks. She dropped her gaze like she'd been burned, and just stood there for a moment, holding the basket in front of herself as though for protection.

A moment passed, and Ragnelle visibly shook herself out of her thoughts to dip a quick, clumsy curtsy at him. Gwaine just nodded in response, trying to look as unthreatening as possible—he even took a step back to give her more space, well aware that being towered over by a knight of Camelot couldn't be the safest of feelings. He wasn't sure if the way she refused to meet his gaze stemmed from uncertainty or embarrassment, but he hated to think it might be fear.

But Ragnelle didn't move, didn't hurry past him although he'd made more than enough room for her to continue on her way even with the basket held in front of herself like a shield. She just stood there, her shoulders tense and hunched as though she _wanted_ to run but couldn't, sinking her teeth into her lower lip to help herself stay still. For a brief moment, Gwaine wanted to tell her to stop that, since her lips were already far too chapped, but the unkind impulse was squashed easily.

Suddenly, he found himself thinking of Percival, and of how dumbfounded he'd been when the other knight had hurried over to help Ragnelle with her basket of berries yesterday. Gwaine hadn't gotten the chance to tease him about that yet, but remembering the stunned look on Ragnelle's face, he wasn't sure if he ever would. The thought stirred at something else in his mind, though, and Gwaine looked down at the basket she was carrying now, wondering why the lady of the house was doing laundry.

"Nice day," he finally remarked, lamely, when he felt that the silence had stretched for far too long.

Ragnelle just shook her head, not buying his attempt at smalltalk. Still, Gwaine saw the minute relief that flickered through her gaze, like she'd expected to be ridiculed within an inch of her life for what she'd done last night. His unexpected politeness seemed to give her some strength, because she straightened up, her head held high although she was still blushing, and said, "You must think me mad."

"Well," Gwaine hedged, not quite having expected such a straightforward statement. He didn't think she was _mad_ , exactly, just up to something that he didn't understand.

Against his will, the memory of the kiss pushed itself to the front of his mind once more, and what struck him as odd about it was that she hadn't seemed to enjoy it. Ragnelle had looked like she was walking to her own funeral when she'd leaned in, and she had kept her chapped lips pressed shut, her eyes closed but not in excitement or pleasure. Even then, Gwaine had thought that she hadn't looked at him because she didn't want to see surprise or even revulsion on his face.

She sighed when he didn't have the heart to deny what she'd said, but didn't look offended. Her movements were slow and deliberate when she bent down, her hair trailing limply over her shoulders as she set the basket down on the floor. Gwaine watched in puzzled silence when she took a step closer, and then another, as though she were trying not to scare off a skittish animal. The thought would have made him laugh in any other situation, but now, the sound just stuck in his throat.

Ragnelle stepped closer still, the sun casting an unfamiliar glow on her thin hair until she stopped right in front of Gwaine, close enough to touch. "Think of me whatever you want," she said, her voice quiet and tightly under control—for the first time, Gwaine could see the bleakness in her small eyes, the clench of her fingers in the folds of her dress. "But please, I must do this."

 

 

As close calls went, Merlin was sure that this hadn't been the last one by far, but he was still shaky with nerves an hour later, when he'd finally remembered the still-damp laundry from the previous day.

The basket's weight was heavy but welcome in his arms, something to focus on besides the skittish, half-formed thoughts that flickered through his mind. His conversation with Gwaine had left him feeling confused and off kilter, his skin crawling with guilty discomfort. It wasn't just that his offered help had been declined—in a way, Merlin suspected that a part of him had known all along that Gwaine wouldn't want to be bailed out like that. But if Merlin was completely honest with himself, what had left him imbalanced was how close Gwaine had come to prying Merlin's secret from his weakening grasp.

It was slightly cooler in the shade of a couple of tall birches, and Merlin sighed in relief when he finally got out of the sun's glare. Several clotheslines were tied between the trees' lower branches, completely empty for now. Merlin set his basket down with a thump as he looked around, but no servants were in sight, and he felt something relax within his chest.

Picking up a damp pair of trousers from the basket, Merlin shook out the creases in the fabric before he hung it up between the trees. The chance to just be by himself for a while was achingly welcome after his talk with Gwaine. He still felt shaky and painfully vulnerable, scraped raw by his friend's open concern that had never wavered even when Merlin hadn't explained to him what was wrong.

Gwaine could never know how close he'd come to unraveling him just with the unabashed warmth in his smile, and the only thing that had held Merlin back was the thought of seeing that warmth disappear. He'd _wanted_ to tell him then, the overwhelming desire to just drag his secret out in the open and be done with it forming a hot lump in his throat.

Merlin took a deep, calming breath to banish those thoughts, and busied himself with sorting out the tangled laces of a dark red tunic. It was no use turning the matter over and over in his head, since he knew that he'd just arrive at the same conclusion again and again. It hadn't been the right time to tell him, although Merlin suspected that there really was no such thing as a right time anyway.

Firmly steering his mind away from the matter, Merlin proceeded to fill the clotheslines with wet pants, socks, shirts, and vests. He hadn't really noticed how much dirty laundry had piled up during their journey—but well, they needed clean clothes to be presentable now, since they were in more or less civil company. He doubted Grænn would be impressed if they showed up for dinner in travel-worn, mud-splattered garments.

He didn't realize that he was humming to himself until he recognized the melody, and for a moment he stopped, quickly glancing around to search for prying eyes. The back of his neck prickled with discomfort. He might be safe from the forest's magic for now, but he was still in the middle of the Green Knight's realm, and singing that song, even absently and under his breath, might not be the best way to ensure that he remained safe.

But there was no one around to hear save for the trees, and somehow, Merlin didn't think they minded very much. He couldn't even hear any sounds from the training grounds, sheltered as he was by the copse of trees, and so he took a deep breath and kept on, feeling strangely reckless. It wasn't all that hard to think back to the hazy days of his childhood when he'd first heard the song, although he couldn't remember all of the words.

" _His hawks they fly so eagerly, down a down, hey down, hey, down_ ," he sang, as quietly as he could—Merlin was well aware that he couldn't carry a tune to save his life, and that his version of the melody was more than a little off-key.

But nothing happened. No clouds suddenly collected on the horizon to let loose a thunderstorm that would strike him where he stood, and the Green Knight didn't jump out from behind a tree, demanding him to stop recounting his life story to all and sundry.

Feeling a bit stupid for his reservations, Merlin straightened out a trouser leg that had somehow been turned inside out, and carried on. _His hawks they fly so eagerly, with a down_." He hadn't really seen any hawks yet, but he didn't doubt that they'd been there, tracking them with their sharp eyes ever since they'd entered the forest. " _His hawks they fly so eagerly, there's no fowl dare come him nigh, with a down, derry, derry, derry down, down_."

He dropped the trousers in shock when he heard a voice join him, just as wavering and hesitant as his own. Spinning around so quickly that he nearly overbalanced, he saw Ragnelle step out from behind a tree, carrying a basket of her own, for once not looking cowed, but wearing a hesitant smile.

Merlin stared at her, unblinking, while he waited for his heartbeat to slow down again and lowered his right hand back to his side. His first thought had been that one of the servants might have sneaked up on him to incinerate him here, away from prying eyes; Ragnelle's appearance was so unexpected that he couldn't even greet her properly. He just watched as she walked over to one of the empty clotheslines and set her burden down with a thump.

"A beautiful song," Ragnelle said conversationally, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as she sorted through the laundry in her basket. "Sad, though."

"Yeah," Merlin agreed belatedly, hurrying to erase the suspicious frown from his features. It didn't have to mean anything that she knew the story—Merlin had known it as well, after all, without being aware of the grain of truth in what he'd thought was a mere legend.

Bending down to retrieve the trousers he'd dropped, Merlin busied himself with the laundry for a while. Away from the others, Ragnelle seemed more at ease than he had ever seen her, and Merlin did his best to imitate her relaxed expression. It wasn't her fault that he was so on edge that he'd been ready to blast her to pieces just because he'd thought she might be one of the servants.

The thought of them stirred up something else in Merlin's mind, and he paused on the act of untangling a shirt's sleeves to look at Ragnelle again. She was clearly preparing to hang up a load of laundry as well, and he frowned at her in confusion. "What are you doing?" he asked before he could think better of it, gesturing at the basket. "You've got servants for that."

Ragnelle paused in shaking out a white nightgown, her face falling as a reluctant frown creased her forehead. "I don't like Grænn's— my husband's servants," she answered, each word slow and careful, like she was wondering whether to tell Merlin that even as she spoke. "They scare me."

Merlin hummed noncommittally, keeping his gaze on his own dwindling supply of wet clothes. It didn't seem like the right time to tell her that he quite agreed with her on that. Coolness seeped through the knees of his trousers as he knelt, rummaging through his laundry for more shirts and trousers. He found himself thinking of the odd way she'd been acting, of the kiss, and of the first day when he'd first seen her, fidgeting uneasily behind her husband's broad back.

More than that, he could still recall the worry etched deeply into her brother's features when he'd told the story of how she had gone to find herself a husband to provide for them. He remembered how Erik had insisted that she was not ugly, and now, in the gentle shade under a canopy of leaves, Merlin could see that she wasn't. Her features still looked mismatched and too small for her face, her hair was still thin and limp, but it shone in the daylight, and the physical exertion gave a rosy tint to her sallow skin.

Abruptly, Merlin rose, determination fueling his movements. He hadn't been able to settle things with Gwaine, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least try to find out what was going on here anyway. He cleared his throat to get Ragnelle's attention, feeling strangely nervous. "May I speak with you openly?"

"You're already speaking to me," Ragnelle pointed out, and turned around to face him, brushing her hair back from her face with a tired smile. "I'm not a lady," she added when she caught sight of his expression, and her gaze drifted to the side as though she'd noticed the bitterness in her own voice. "You don't need to mince your words."

Merlin wanted to say that just because she was no lady didn't mean he wouldn't be polite, but he knew instinctively that she wouldn't react well to that either. He settled for just looking at her for a long moment, waiting until the strain had left her features again, and said, carefully, "You don't seem happy here."

Ragnelle looked surprised rather than offended or frightened, and Merlin mentally patted himself on the back—it seemed he _could_ be subtle, no matter what Gwaine said. But although his words had disarmed her for a moment, she quickly schooled her features back into a blank—if slightly strained—expression. "Well," she replied, slowly, selecting each of her words with great care. "You don't always get to choose where you end up in life."

There was a pause, and Merlin felt dread coil into a cold ball in his stomach despite the forced nonchalance in Ragnelle's voice. She was doing her best to keep herself from giving anything away, but he still saw that her hands shook slightly when she absently tugged the wrinkles out of a piece of laundry. With all of his attention focused on her, Merlin caught the way her brow furrowed in thought, and he imagined that she was rethinking her own words and berating herself for them.

"What is he doing to you?" Merlin asked quietly, subtlety going out the proverbial window with the straightforward question. But he couldn't beat around the bush anymore now, not with the sudden memory of the kiss pushing its way to the front of his mind. The dull mask of her expression wasn't anything he could just shove away—she had looked like she'd had no choice but go through with whatever strange scheme had been hidden behind the kiss.

Ragnelle flinched, caught off-guard, and just stared at him for a moment. "Nothing," she said, her voice blank with surprise. But Merlin simply gazed back at her, not needing to voice his disbelief, and he saw the flicker in her eyes as she seemed to consider her options. She could try to laugh it off or play up the persona of a haughty high-born lady to get Merlin to drop the subject. But somehow, Merlin doubted that she was a good enough actress to pull that off.

She looked away to the house for a moment, as if she hoped for some sort of support to rush to her aid. "You've got the completely wrong idea," she insisted, trying to keep her voice calm and collected although her eyes were wide when she met Merlin's gaze again, seeming to beg him to stop asking. "Grænn has been the kindest, most thoughtful—"

Something in Merlin's expression stopped the string of words, and Ragnelle took a deep breath, her hands twitching as though she wanted to clench her fingers around the folds of her dress for support. "No," she said, almost to herself, a reprimand rather than an affirmation of the truth. Her movements were jerky when she bent down to retrieve her basket of laundry, and Merlin watched in befuddled silence as she prepared herself to leave.

"I shouldn't talk to you," she told Merlin, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze skittered over his shoulder, and somehow, he knew she was keeping watch for any servants that might be headed their way. "I'm sure this is already breaking some sort of magical rule—"

"Magical rule?" Merlin repeated, more sharply than he'd intended, and stepped forward to block her passage before she could escape. He barely realized that he was all but towering over her now, and that she shrunk back from him. He put a hand on her basket to keep her from weaving around him and running off. "What are you _doing?_ You and Grænn, you're planning something—"

"I'm not!" Ragnelle protested, incredulity edging into her voice, like she couldn't believe that Merlin continued to pry, and that she was so close to spilling the secret at his feet. "I'm just _part_ of the plan—"

Merlin noticed that he was practically looming over her, and took a hurried step back even as the basket slipped from Ragnelle's fingers, shock dawning on her face as she realized what she'd said. He didn't let up, though—he'd already gotten past most of her defenses, and there was no telling when he'd next get the chance to find out more about this.

"So Grænn is planning something," he prompted, trying to keep his tone gentle and trustworthy now, rather than threatening. "And he's using you for it?"

Ragnelle stared at him for a long moment, her face pale, before she took a step back, reaching behind her back to steady herself against the solid trunk of a tree. But she seemed to realize that Merlin just wanted information from her, and that he wouldn't resort to threats to pry it out of her. The wet laundry was lying forgotten in the grass, spilled from the upended basket, but she made no move to pick it up.

"At first I was just so relieved that he wanted me," she said, her voice so quiet that Merlin had to strain his ears to hear her. She wasn't looking at him, but stared down at the patch of grass between her feet instead. "I thought he could provide for me and my brother, that he might even help my brother become a knight."

She glanced at him then, hesitantly, but the look on Merlin's face seemed to confirm her worst suspicions. Pushing away from the tree with some difficulty, Ragnelle held his gaze with wide, suspiciously bright eyes that seemed to plead with him not to judge her. "Our father died," she blurted out, the words torn from her in her haste to correct whatever assumptions she thought Merlin had made about her, "and I _had_ to find a husband, I didn't know what else to do to make sure we survive, but— but then I found out about Grænn's— about what he—"

Apparently the memory was enough to stop the uncoordinated torrent of words. Merlin watched as she swallowed and her gaze darted away, her expression torn between apprehension and confusion, and felt his hands grow cold. He didn't ask; a part of him didn't even want to. He just waited for her to go on, and wondered distantly if the whole thing would turn out to be another yet another magical problem for him to take care of.

"I wanted to travel back to Torpelei to get Erik—my brother," Ragnelle added as an afterthought, her voice steadier now, "and Grænn said I couldn't." She took a deep, calming breath; when she looked up at Merlin again, her gaze was less over-bright. But her eyes were filled with dull fatigue, and Merlin knew that she had probably turned this particular memory over and over in her head during sleepless nights. "And he really has been nothing but kind to me, but I'm not allowed to go until this test is over."

"Test?" Merlin repeated, tonelessly. The back of his neck prickled like someone was watching him, but Merlin knew that it was just his wariness getting the better of him. "Of what?"

Ragnelle closed her eyes and sunk back against the tree again, passing a hand over her forehead as though she felt tired, now that the most difficult part of the conversation seemed to be over. "Of Gwaine's honesty."

Suddenly, the last of the puzzle pieces fell into place for Merlin—he remembered the first morning at Grænn's house, when their host had invited Gwaine to take part in his little game. He hadn't thought anything of it back then, especially since he'd been too busy relishing in the fact that after all that time spent in the forest, his mind was finally his own again. But now the memory was back, crystal clear in front of his mind's eye.

He sighed heavily and raked a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling like he might need the support of a tree as well. One day, he would really have to ask Gwaine what he had done to piss off the fates—no matter where they stopped on this journey, everyone seemed out to get him. First he'd agreed to a possibly lethal bargain with the Green Knight, and now Grænn had roped him into another compact, and while that seemed like just a bit of fun to pass the time on long summer evenings, Merlin had the distinct feeling that there was something more behind it.

"I just want to go home," Ragnelle said dully, breaking through Merlin's train of thought. She was staring down at her hands when he looked up at her again, scrutinizing her fingers as though she was wondering how the hell she had ended up here, in this situation. "I don't even care that none of the men there want me—I'll find another way to provide for my brother."

Although the sunlight revealed no lines on her face, she looked strangely old then, weighed down with a kind of responsibility that was unfamiliar to Merlin, but that didn't mean he couldn't understand. "You should go home," he told her, softly, and resolutely pushed the thought of Gwaine to the back of his mind. He would have to think about that later—now he had a distressed lady to reassure. "As soon as you can, I mean. Erik misses you."

Her head jerked up as if she'd been struck, and Merlin silently commended himself for having broken through her morose mood. "You met Erik?"

Merlin nodded, and let himself smile, albeit hesitantly. "I did," he confirmed. "He let us stay at the hunting lodge for a night." He wisely left out the fact that Erik had tried to challenge the crown prince of Camelot to a duel—somehow, he didn't think Ragnelle would find that reassuring. "He's a brave kid—he'd make a great squire, you know."

Ragnelle snorted, bitterness dropping like a veil across her features, but Merlin continued to talk—he didn't want to hear that Erik wouldn't get to be a squire anytime soon, being the son of the lord who had neglected the village assigned to his care so much. "Look," he said quickly, leaning forward to hold Ragnelle's gaze, "why don't the two of you just leave, if life in Torpelei is so awful for you?"

That took the wind out of her sails for a moment. She stared at Merlin through narrowed eyes, almost like she was seeing him clearly for the first time. But although she didn't reply, she didn't snap at him to keep his nose out of her and her brother's lives either, and Merlin counted it as a win anyway.

Silence stretched between them, only interrupted by the rustling of leaves overhead as a slight breeze played with the damp clothes they had hung up already. Ragnelle's absent gaze trailed over her upturned basket of laundry, and with a sigh, she bent down to pick it back up off the ground. Blades of grass clung to the wet fabric, but she didn't seem to notice or care; she just scooped the clothes back into the basket.

She obviously didn't want to continue the conversation—probably because Merlin had pried a secret from her grasp and then suggested that she and her brother uproot their entire lives to move away from Torpelei. Merlin watched in indecisive silence as Ragnelle turned back to the clotheslines with an air of resolution about her, like she wanted to put this whole talk behind herself.

Impulsively, Merlin reached out a hand to hold her back for a moment longer, trying not to notice the way she flinched at his touch. "Don't just brush this off, okay?" he implored, keeping his voice low. He couldn't help but think of Erik in his father's too-large armor, of his eagerness to become a knight, and of the way he'd talked about the villagers. "I know you don't know me, and I don't really have any right to tell you what to do with your life and your brother's, of course, but... just think about it," he finished, a bit lamely.

But he still seemed to have gotten through to Ragnelle, because she nodded after a moment, her forehead creased in an uncomfortable frown. She was probably thinking of Erik as well, and Merlin let go of her arm, hoping that she would remember his words.

This time, he let her turn back to the laundry, and just watched for a moment as she shook out a pair of trousers and sent blades of grass flying. The dread was still there at the back of his mind, but it felt oddly appeased, like talking to Ragnelle had been enough to calm him a bit. In a way, the situation wasn't all that different from the whole thing with the Green Knight—he would just have to stay on his toes and keep an eye on Gwaine, whether his friend liked it or not. He didn't really think that Grænn harbored any ill will towards them, but until Merlin figured out what was truly going on here, he would have to be careful.

 

 

In the late afternoon, Gwaine found himself sauntering down a dimly lit corridor he had never seen before, and finally admitted that he was well and truly lost.

After he had run into Ragnelle, he'd just wanted some time to himself to sort out his confused thoughts—because of course, she had kissed him again. In retrospect, he didn't really know why he'd been surprised. He had recognized the focused look of determination from the night before, and so he hadn't stepped back when she'd pressed her lips to his in a quick, chaste peck.

It was probably just his hangover that was mellowing his spirit, but Gwaine hadn't even had the heart to tease her when she'd gathered her basket of laundry and practically ran away down the hallway afterwards. Whatever strange game she was playing, he couldn't help but think that she was thoroughly uncomfortable with it, unwilling to even wait for his reaction to her odd behavior. For just a moment, he had thought about running after her to tell her that she didn't need to keep ambushing him with random kisses if she didn't even really want to. But well, the one thing Gwaine found himself looking forward to was bestowing her reluctant gift upon her husband.

The thought had made him grin, and he'd strolled through the hallways until he'd found a large window that faced the backyard. He sat there for a while, looking down at the training grounds where Percival and Elyan were pummeling each other with borrowed swords. All of the other knights relished in the opportunity to blow off some steam, but Gwaine still hadn't felt like joining them.

He'd seen that Leon was carrying a battle axe from Grænn's armory, experimentally hefting the heavy weapon as he prepared for his duel with Lancelot. Something had constricted in his chest, and Gwaine practically felt the absent half-smile vanish from his features at the sight of the blade, glinting innocently in the sunlight. Before his mind could fully catch up, Gwaine's feet were already carrying him down the hallway at a brisk pace, away from the reminder of what awaited him in not even two days.

Not all that intent on going back outside, he had spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the house. He'd found a library on the first floor, with shelves upon shelves of books lining the paneled walls; a musky scent of ancient mold had hit him like a physical wave, and so he just gave the room a quick once-over before shutting the door again. Not all of the mansion's corridors were as richly decorated and well-kept as those they had been led through by the servants—Gwaine's feet had kicked up big clouds of dust in the more remote parts of the mansion, and some of the doors he passed looked so old and rusty that he doubted he'd be able to open them.

His aimless exploration had led him down stairwells and through passages, until he didn't even know which floor he was on anymore. And now, judging from the enticing scents that floated through the air, he had found his way down to the kitchen.

Light spilled down the corridor as Gwaine ventured closer, and when he rounded the corner, he saw that the hallway ended in a narrow open door that let in the reddish hue of fading sunlight. The clanging of pots and pans could be heard through a larger door on his left, and Gwaine felt his mouth water when he smelled a whiff of grilled meat in the air.

But what sent a thrill of alarm down his spine wasn't the scent of food. Two servants were standing in the open door, leaning against the wall and seeming to wait for something. They stared out at the grounds; although Gwaine had made no effort to walk quietly, they hadn't noticed him yet, and before he could think better of it, he had already stepped back into the shadows.

His heart beating quickly, Gwaine waited with bated breath, but the two men didn't move. A slight breeze stirred their unruly hair, one mop sleek black and the other an odd, patchy brown. The black-haired servant turned his head into the wind to let it ruffle the messy strands—with his head sharply outlined by the fading daylight, his hair looked oddly stringy, like he'd taken a dive into salt water and forgot to wash out the salty stiffness later.

"This is so uncomfortable," the other man spoke up, and Gwaine flinched, startled out of his meandering thoughts. His tone was quiet but tightly controlled, like this was a complaint he had voiced too many times to count, although it had become no less frustrating.

It took Gwaine a moment to place the ripple of motion that suddenly stirred the servant's body, and then he realized that he was stretching slowly, shrugging his shoulders as if to improve the fit of a too-tight coat. Gwaine watched in mute incomprehension as the man examined his hands, curled and uncurled them and stared down at his fingers with an expression of disgust.

The black-haired servant glanced at him from the corner of his eye, his face completely blank although Gwaine had thought he would see reassurance there, or at least understanding. "We won't have to hold out for much longer," he answered, his tone as unreadable as his expression. "It'll all be over soon, for better or for worse."

A lingering silence fell, and Gwaine just glanced back and forth between the two men, waiting for the servant with the brown hair to say something in reply. But he seemed appeased by his companion's words, because he didn't speak again. He kept shifting every so often, though, tiny twitching movements that looked like he was trying to adjust the fit of his own skin.

He must have made some sort of noise, he thought later, some nearly inaudible sound of confusion that must have alerted them to his presence. Without any preamble, both of the servants turned their heads towards him, pushing away from the walls in unison as though they'd practiced the sheer synchronicity of their movements. Gwaine took an involuntary step back when two pairs of unblinking eyes fixed on him, shadowed against the backdrop of light from outside. His heart seemed to lurch a little as his pulse sped up in alarm, and suddenly he was all too aware of how far away he was from the others.

A moment passed, and then the brown-haired servant stepped forward, head cocked to the side. His eyes were a bright amber that Gwaine didn't think he'd ever seen before, not quite gold but still almost glowing in the dim hallway. "Can we help you?"

"I was just wondering if there was anything to drink here," Gwaine found himself saying, a jovial grin fixing itself upon his features on its own accord. He didn't quite know where his sudden presence of mind came from, but he forced his stance into a relaxed swagger as he stepped forward from the shadows as if he'd just walked down the hallway.

"Certainly, sir," the other servant said, politely enough, but the glance he exchanged with his companion still made Gwaine's smile freeze around the edges. But the other man simply nodded and pushed past him into the kitchen, reappearing after a moment with a large goblet held gingerly between the hands that he had just been staring down at in distaste.

Gwaine spent the next couple of minutes sipping wine and looking out the door along with the two servants, although he had no idea what they were all waiting for. He wanted to hand back his drink and make up some excuse why he had to find the others right now, but something, perhaps curiosity, was holding him back.

His skin all but crawled with discomfort, but he couldn't bring himself to escape from the situation. While the brown-haired man had kept twitching and moving erratically before, he was holding himself unnaturally still now. The wine was stronger than anything else he'd drunk in Grænn's house before, the alcohol burning a path down to his empty stomach and going to his head far more quickly than Gwaine would have preferred. He was already starting to feel a bit woozy, and he couldn't help but think that they were probably plying him with strong alcohol to make him forget the short, confusing conversation he'd overheard.

"Our lord returns," the black-haired servant suddenly spoke up, startling Gwaine into spilling wine on his sleeve. He was staring at something beyond the gently swaying grass—confused, Gwaine set down his goblet as he followed his gaze to two huge, gnarled oak trees that marked the edge of the forest, but he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

As if they had heard his thoughts, the oaks seemed to bend in the sudden gust of wind that tore through the clearing, tousling Gwaine's hair although he wasn't even standing fully outside. He impatiently pushed it out of his face again, just in time to see Grænn emerge from the treeline, surrounded by a snuffling, panting entourage of large black dogs.

He was carrying something that looked like a dead animal, carelessly slung over his shoulder, and as he came closer, Gwaine saw that it was a boar—the biggest boar he'd ever seen. The dogs milled about his feet, pink wet tongues lolling out of their furry muzzles as they followed their master up the gentle slope to the house. The front of Grænn's leather vest was dark with blood that still trickled from the carcass, but he didn't seem to notice. Twigs and leaves had gotten caught in his red hair, like he'd spent the entire day crawling through the undergrowth in pursuit of the mighty slain beast he was bringing home now.

Gwaine could see the moment Grænn caught sight of them, because his steps faltered almost imperceptibly before he straightened his spine and sped up, striding towards the narrow door with a winning smile. The two servants strode out onto the lawn to meet him, the black-haired servant gracefully relieving his lord of the the boar, while the other man bent down to pet the dogs. They licked his hands and butted their big shaggy heads into his knees, tails wagging merrily.

"Greetings, Sir Gwaine," Grænn addressed him, and Gwaine quickly refocused his gaze on their host, who was now standing right in front of him, smiling with his hands propped up on his hips. "Nice weather for an evening stroll."

Gwaine shrugged and nodded, not quite trusting his voice not to betray his confusion yet. The playful glint in the man's eyes made him wonder if Grænn knew that he'd spied on his servants, but Gwaine pushed the thought to the back of his mind with a mental eyeroll. There was no way for Grænn to have seen that all the way from the forest, and even if there was, Gwaine had other things to worry about.

A few of the dogs had lost interest in the servant and had bounded over to them, leaning into Grænn's legs for a quick pet and nosing curiously at Gwaine's hands. He couldn't help but smile as one of them stared up at him as though to ask him where he'd suddenly come from, and when he bent down to scratch behind its ears, the dog rewarded him with a slobbery lick of his palm.

"Loyal companions," Grænn commented quietly. His voice had lost some of its cheer, and he looked thoughtful when Gwaine glanced up at him, watching him stroke the dog's head.

"Good hunters, too, I'll bet," Gwaine said, a little absently, because the dog was looking at him, and he hadn't noticed until now that its eyes were golden.

It was the kind of color one would expect to see in a richly-adorned throne room, not in the face of an animal—the dog's ears perked up, and although its tail was still wagging enthusiastically, Gwaine couldn't help the apprehensive shiver that went through him. That gaze was not just filled with the simple satisfaction of a day's successful hunt. It carried knowledge, _intelligence_ , even, and its steady weight unnerved him.

He cleared his throat and straightened up again, trying to look completely unaffected although Grænn was still watching him as well, a tiny frown etched between his eyebrows. "I bet that boar wasn't easy prey," he stated, nodding towards the servant who was now ducking back into the house, doubtlessly headed for the kitchen with his load.

Grænn blinked at him for a moment, shaken out of whatever thoughts had occupied his mind. Then he grinned, clapping a companionable hand on Gwaine's shoulder. "Do you like it?" he said, his voice light and teasing, although Gwaine didn't quite understand why. "I do hope that I've fulfilled my part of our bargain to your satisfaction today."

 _Speaking of which_ , Gwaine wanted to say, _your wife keeps kissing me for some reason_ , but of course he kept his mouth shut. It was easy to hide the twinge of discomfort behind a guileless smile, though, even as the memory of the night before tried to push itself to the front of his mind. "You sure have," he replied, barely noticing that the dog seemed to have lost interest in him and was nosing once more at Grænn's pockets as though hoping for a treat. "It's marvelous, compared to what I have to give you, but..."

He trailed off deliberately, shrugging one shoulder, inwardly thrilled when Grænn threw his head back and let out one of his trademark booming laughs. "Oh no, no," he said, his grin widening into a coyness that, oddly enough, made Gwaine feel more at ease than anything else. "I'm certain that the gifts you have to give will more than live up to the meager outcome of my hunt."

Anticipation sent a prickle of heat through Gwaine's veins when he realized that Grænn was playing along. With all the numerous things that were strange about their host and his mansion and his servants, Gwaine was almost certain that Grænn knew what he was going to do, but for some reason, he was following Gwaine's lead anyway.

"Well," Gwaine stated airily, trying not to look as oddly triumphant as he felt, like he'd won some sort of fight although they hadn't even been arguing. "Shall we, then?"

"Be my guest," Grænn replied with a little courteous bow, undisguised mirth sparkling in his gaze—it was as green as the forest in his back, barely distinguishable from the darkening trees. And this time they were almost completely alone, with no annoying crown princes to glare at him, and so Gwaine took his time leaning in, watching the green eyes grow hooded and dark.

Grænn's lips were chapped from an entire day spent running about in the forest, but just like the night before, the kiss still sent a velvety rough prickle of heat straight down to Gwaine's toes. Truth to be told, it wasn't anything like the quick, chaste peck that Ragnelle had given him just a couple of hours ago; but even if licking into the man's mouth was breaking their bargain in some way, Gwaine didn't care.

He tasted like the forest, like the ageless sway of the treeline in his back and the grass that his dogs had crushed with their paws in their eager pursuit of the boar. He tasted like the slosh and trickle of water over stones and the wild roar of the wind, and he kissed Gwaine back with enough fervor to bruise his lips. Their teeth clicked together, and Gwaine gasped into his mouth, startled by the almost brutal pull of heat that shot through his groin when sharp teeth sunk into his lower lip—

Gwaine didn't realize that Grænn had fisted his hands in his hair until his head was tugged back, the pull on his hair riding the edge of pain and making him hiss in discomfort. He opened his eyes, noticing only now that he'd closed them, and gave Grænn an uncomprehending stare through the haze that clouded his mind. All rational thought had deserted his mind, and it took him a second to even understand where they were and what he had just done, and then frustration bubbled up in him because Grænn had _stopped_ him.

"Careful," Grænn whispered hoarsely, the word little more than a gust of warm, damp air on Gwaine's lips. He shuddered helplessly, and just barely stopped himself from leaning in again for another taste of that ripe, kiss-bruised mouth. "Be careful where you go, Sir Gwaine. You might get lost."

His tone was gentle, but the warning in his eyes was real, and for a long moment they just stood there, holding each other's gaze while Gwaine struggled to regain his senses. It wasn't just the effect of the alcohol. It felt like he'd been drugged on some strange, enticing potion, or a particularly disorienting magical spell, but he didn't feel enchanted. _Bewitched_ , maybe, with an insistent fire still burning in his groin and Grænn's eyes just inches away, swirling with some unnameable emotion.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Gwaine stepped back, the sound alone enough to free him from the weight of that endless moment. He felt warmed up from head to toe, his skin tight with the healthy flush of heat, but he still tried to paste a neutral, unassuming expression on his face as he turned around. Grænn refocused his gaze on the door as well, blinking slowly as if the kiss had left him just as shaken, and Gwaine couldn't help a small surge of triumph.

It was Merlin who stood in the doorway and glanced back and forth between them, one hand on the stone wall like the sight of them had left him unsteady. He didn't _look_ dizzy, though—in fact, he didn't even look surprised, just blankly curious as his gaze came to rest on Gwaine. Concern edged its way into his eyes, blue and not green, but just as hypnotic as Grænn's in their own right.

"Hey, Merlin," Gwaine greeted awkwardly, clearing his throat when his voice came out rough and husky. This time, it was Grænn who subtly stepped away—his hands must have slid out of his hair at some point. Gwaine tried for a smile, well aware that even if Merlin hadn't seen the kiss, it would be all too easy for him to draw his own conclusions from Gwaine's flushed face. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, I was just—," Merlin blurted out, gesturing vaguely at the dim hallway behind him, but his gaze never left Gwaine, giving him a quick once-over. "Are you okay?"

"Just fine," Gwaine replied, warmed by his friend's concern although he had interrupted them. He gestured towards Grænn, driven by the odd urge to explain the situation. "Our host here was just telling me about his hunt."

Grænn inclined his head in agreement, and Gwaine noticed with mild annoyance that the flush had left his face, leaving him looking calm and unruffled. His eyes were darker than usual, but there wasn't even a hair out of place on his head—one side of his vest was still dark with the boar's blood, and he didn't look at all like he'd just been kissed within an inch of his life.

"Oh," Merlin muttered, his eyes lingering on the patch of blood before he seemed to dismiss it as unimportant. He gestured behind himself again, and Gwaine noticed for the first time that he seemed nervous, his shoulders hunched a little as if he was bracing himself for an attack. "I just ran into some of the—servants..."

He trailed off, his gaze fixed on something below eye level. For a moment he looked completely taken aback, but then the color drained from his face so quickly that Gwaine took an involuntary step towards him. Merlin let out a quiet gasp as he stumbled back, but when Gwaine followed his gaze, his hand automatically reaching for the dagger that wasn't attached to his belt, he just found himself looking at one of Grænn's dogs.

"Merlin?" Gwaine ventured, because Merlin looked like he was about to collapse on the spot. His knuckles were white around the wooden door frame, and he just stared and stared at the dog as though its mere appearance was too baffling, too frightening for him to comprehend.

The dog gazed back calmly from its perch next to Grænn, its tail wagging slightly in the grass, but although it hadn't jumped up to greet Merlin, it wasn't looking away from his wide-eyed stare either. The same strange apprehension that he had felt before now wormed its way into Gwaine's consciousness again. _Figured me out, have you?_ the dog's gaze seemed to say, with a self-assured, timeless kind of patience that chilled Gwaine's blood more than the unmistakable fear on Merlin's features.

His face pasty white in the fading daylight, Merlin looked around at the other dogs and then up at Grænn, like he hoped that their host would either make the animals disappear or explain whatever had frightened him so much about their existence. The small creases between Grænn's eyebrows seemed more pronounced, his features a bit tighter than before, but he didn't react to Merlin's imploring stare.

"Hounds," Merlin said faintly, his voice so quiet that Gwaine nearly didn't catch the single word. A muscle twitched in Grænn's cheek, a quick flicker of emotion passing through his eyes. But he still didn't speak, just watched as Merlin's gaze shifted to the black-haired servant who was still standing nearby. "Hawks. Ravens. Oh my God."

"Merlin?" Gwaine repeated, a bit louder this time, and walked over to where he was still standing in the doorway, frozen to the spot by the slow realization that dawned on his face. His hand wouldn't stop twitching towards his belt, although he had no idea what Merlin felt threatened by—the dogs would never even touch him as long as Grænn was there. But he was still acutely aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing his dagger to defend his friend against whatever he'd been so shocked by.

Merlin just shook his head as if to dislodge a stubborn thought, shifting to look around Gwaine's approaching form. The apprehension in his eyes hardened into certainty like steel passing through fire, and his shoulders straightened as his gaze met Grænn's.

Grænn seemed to have recovered from whatever held-back emotion had kept his features blank before. He smiled serenely at Merlin before glancing at the black-haired servant, and the man summoned the dogs to his side with a cluck of his tongue, herding them away from the door. He almost seemed in a hurry to get away from Merlin's half incredulous, half accusing stare, because he made his way over to the door at a quick pace, probably intending to change his clothes before dinner.

Gwaine turned his gaze back on Merlin, trying to convey without words that he had no idea what had just happened and what Merlin had just understood, judging from the look on his face. But Merlin shook his head, eyes flickering to Grænn once more—apparently he didn't want to talk about it in front of him.

Thoroughly confused, Gwaine couldn't do anything but watch as Grænn stepped through the doorway, waiting courteously until Merlin had shifted to the side. It could just have been his imagination, but he thought he saw Merlin flinch as their host walked past him. For the first time, Gwaine noticed the scent of the boar's spilled blood that followed in Grænn's wake, coppery and sharp on the warm evening air.

 

 

With the aftereffects of the day's intense training weighing down his limbs, the sight of the luxurious steaming bath in his chambers of Grænn's guest wing was more than welcome to Arthur.

He felt pleasantly tired as he toed off his boots, ignoring the twinge in his calves. He'd dueled with all of his knights, with the exception of Gwaine who had gone back inside at some point, probably to nurse his sore head. As it was, Arthur welcomed the pull of aching muscles, because it was just a sign of a day well-spent—a shred of normalcy that reminded him of Camelot. He couldn't think of any reason why they'd need to fight for their lives on the way back, but it made him feel prepared to stay fit anyway, just in case they ran into any more Mercian patrols.

He was just depositing his boots by the table when he heard running footsteps out in the hallway, and turned around just in time to see the door fly open and crash into the wall, revealing his rather distraught manservant.

Merlin was so pale that Arthur wondered how he wasn't collapsing on the spot, panting for air and flickering a wild-eyed look through the room as if to make sure that there were no monsters hiding in the shadows. He didn't even look at the door, but it still slammed shut behind him, and Arthur saw the key turn untouched, the lock slipping into place with a reassuring click.

"Arthur," Merlin gasped like he'd recognized him only now, and lurched forward on unsteady feet. Before his mind could catch up with his legs, Arthur had crossed the room in an instant, gripping Merlin's shoulders in a firm hold to steady him. Merlin's chest was heaving for air, heat rolling off of him in waves as though he'd ran all the way here from some dark hallway at the other end of the mansion.

"The dogs," Merlin choked out when he'd caught his breath a little, his eyes wide with residual disbelief, like he'd just come to a realization that he didn't know how to accept. "I saw them again— and suddenly it all made sense, it was the exact same dogs, and he must have transfigured the servants, and Grænn is— he's—"

"Merlin, calm down," Arthur ordered, keeping his voice level despite the first stirrings of apprehension that gripped hold of his stomach. "You're safe here. Just tell me what happened, and we'll figure something out."

He still remembered that evening at Cogeltone, when Merlin had come running to him in much the same manner, spouting panicked babble about dogs of some sort. But whatever had wound Merlin up into such a state now, it didn't seem to frighten him as much, because he nodded jerkily, struggling to calm his breathing. A bit of color returned to his cheeks; his shoulders didn't feel as tense under Arthur's hands anymore, and Arthur hurried to let go of him and take a step back when he noticed that he'd still been holding him.

"I went to look for Gwaine," Merlin began, and Arthur was relieved to hear that most of the instinctive urgency had left his voice. "And he— well, I found him with Grænn, and I guess he's fulfilled his promise today, too, you know, the exchange of winnings thing..."

Shrugging vaguely, Merlin trailed off for a moment; it could just have been reflections of the candlelight, but Arthur thought he saw a slight flush rise to Merlin's cheeks. He frowned, ready to prod Merlin into telling him just what Gwaine and Grænn had been doing, but Merlin carried on unprompted.

"Grænn had just returned from a hunt, he still had his dogs with him," Merlin frowned, clearly caught up in the memory for a moment, "and they were the same dogs that I saw in the field at Cogeltone, huge black hounds with golden eyes, and that's when it all just— made sense, suddenly."

He took a deep breath, refocusing his gaze on Arthur; his eyes were dark and earnest, and Arthur got the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to like what Merlin would say next. "Do you remember the song?" he asked, quietly. "The song about how the Green Knight died defending this forest and the animals buried him here?"

Arthur blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change of topic. He nodded mutely, and watched Merlin rake a hand through his hair, distressed anew. "I should have known all along—all the clues were there, but I didn't know how to put them together until I saw the dogs." He cleared his throat, giving Arthur an apologetic look like he regretted not having figured it out sooner. "There's really no other conclusion. I think Grænn is the Green Knight in disguise."

For a couple of seconds, Arthur couldn't do anything but gape at Merlin in silence—if it hadn't been for the unmistakable seriousness of Merlin's gaze, Arthur might have let out a disbelieving laugh. The mere idea was ludicrous, and yet Merlin seemed to trust in what he'd just said, although he'd worded it as more of a suggestion.

"It all makes sense, if you think about it," Merlin hurried to add, speaking more quickly now that he could see the incredulity writ large across Arthur's features. "He's got his animals about him, too—I saw the dogs just today, and he must have transfigured the hawks and ravens to look like human servants—"

"What?" Arthur interrupted, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times when Merlin fell expectantly silent. He couldn't quite think of any words that would convey just how insane that had sounded to his ears. "Transfigured the— the _servants?_ They're sort of strange, I agree, but— _birds?_ "

"Just look at their hair," Merlin insisted, not surprised in the slightest that Arthur's mind chose the servants to get stuck on, rather than Grænn's supposed true identity, "it looks like feathers, doesn't it? And haven't you noticed how they always stare at you without blinking, like birds?"

"Well—," Arthur began, but broke off when he realized that, yes, he had indeed noticed that. It had unnerved him slightly along with everything else about Grænn's servants. And if he was completely honest with himself, he couldn't deny the unease he'd always felt in their presence, like some primal instinct of his had picked up on what Merlin had deduced now.

"That's just impossible," he said resolutely, although he knew that his own attempt at convincing himself fell flat in the face of Merlin's certainty. Merlin shook his head and took a step closer, undeterred by Arthur's skeptic look.

"It's not," he objected, and for once he sounded absolutely sure of what he was saying, instead of softly persuasive to try and sway Arthur's opinion. "Transfiguration is pretty hard, especially if you're trying to change the shape of living, sentient beings, but it can be done. And the Green Knight is an ancient forest spirit—I'm sure his magic is more than strong enough to do that."

The ensuing silence was deafening, and Arthur could see the moment Merlin realized what he'd said. A little of the color left his face again, contrition darkening his eyes as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, as if he wished he could take his words back. It took Arthur a second to realize that Merlin thought he'd overstepped some invisible, fragile border with his carelessly overt explanation.

"Let's just assume you're right for now," Arthur said abruptly, not really because he believed him yet, but because he found that he didn't want to see Merlin squirming under his stare like that anymore. "What does that— I mean, what do we do about this, then?"

Merlin blew out a long, slow breath, as much to release his pent-up apprehension as to give himself time to think. "I'm not sure," he replied, his gaze skittering down and away. Frustration bubbled up in Arthur's throat when he saw Merlin bite his lip, because really, how often did he have to beat it into Merlin's thick head that he didn't expect him to come up with instant solutions for every magical problem they ran into?

But before he could say anything, Merlin looked up again, apparently just remembering something he'd forgotten until now. "I don't think we should expose him for who he really is," he began, his tone hesitant. "I talked to Ragnelle earlier, and she's part of whatever scheme he's plotting—I don't know what it would mean for her if we just announced to everyone that Grænn is really the Green Knight."

Arthur nodded slowly, his thoughts racing and chasing each other like snowflakes in a storm. He was mildly surprised how much information Merlin had managed to gather in just a single day—when they had parted ways this morning, he had assumed Merlin would spend the day relaxing. But apparently he'd chosen to start unraveling this mystery instead of simply relishing in the fact that he was finally free of the forest's magic.

"Then we can't expose him," he decided, barely noticing that Merlin was nodding fervently, looking relieved. He didn't want to put Erik's sister into an even more uncomfortable position than the one she was already in. Although Grænn seemed to treat her with the utmost respect, she was strangely skittish around him, and Arthur had thought to himself that her plan to get married to provide for her brother must have backfired in some way.

No sound broke through the silent pause except for the occasional pop and crackle from one of the candles. A navy, velvety darkness had begun to fill the sky outside, the nocturnal chill of the air creeping into the room through a half-open window. It was getting late, and Arthur vaguely thought of calling for one of the servants to light a fire in their fireplace—it seemed he would need a good night's sleep to have his wits about him the next day in case Grænn tried anything. But then he remembered what Merlin had just told him about the servants, and the urge to summon them went away.

"I suppose we could just play along for now," Merlin said at last; he was leaning against the table, watching him, and Arthur noticed for the first time how tired he looked. He didn't seem even half as exhausted as he'd been in the forest, but the evening's revelations had clearly taken their toll on him. "We'll be out of here the day after tomorrow, and Grænn as good as promised to tell us where the Green Chapel is."

Arthur nodded, rubbing his forehead to stave off the headache he felt coming. He didn't have a better idea anyway, and he felt rather out of his depth on top of that, frustratingly clueless in the face of yet another magical mystery. It should have been unsettling that his manservant didn't seem much more sure of himself in this than he did, but to his own surprise, Arthur found it almost reassuring. At least he didn't feel like quite as much of a fool this way.

"Well," Merlin said after another pause, his gaze traveling aimlessly through the room in search of something to catch his attention. The corners of his mouth lifted in a tentative smile, and he gestured towards the far side of the room. "I see the birds have drawn you a bath."

Puzzled, Arthur turned around to the steaming tub and stared at it for a moment before he suddenly remembered why it was there. He'd been so preoccupied with coming to terms with these new revealed secrets that he'd outright forgotten the ache in his thighs and the pull of overworked muscle that shot through his back every time he moved.

"Right," he said, belatedly, and shook his head to focus his thoughts on the sight in front of him, rather than the mental image of _birds_ —or, well, transfigured birds—rushing up and down the stairs with kettles of hot water. Or maybe they'd just had to snap their fingers to make the tub appear. "I'll just—"

He trailed off when he suddenly felt Merlin's hands on his shoulders, moving to the front of his vest to undo the clasp with deft fingers. Even dulled by layers of fabric, the touch sent a shiver down his spine, achingly familiar and shockingly new at the same time. Arthur took a deep breath, and felt Merlin's hands falter—but he didn't speak, and after a second of hesitation, Merlin kept on.

Arthur couldn't remember the last time he'd even allowed Merlin to be in the same room when he took off his clothes. He'd stopped requiring that kind of assistance from his manservant after Merlin had told him that he was a sorcerer, but he couldn't think of a single reason why he shouldn't let it happen again now. He focused his gaze on the bath, determined not to let on how hard his heart was suddenly beating against his ribcage, although the situation was just as strangely unsettling for Merlin, if the unsteady puffs of his breaths against Arthur's neck were anything to go by.

Merlin moved around him when he helped Arthur shrug out of the vest—he took care to slip it down his right shoulder, Arthur noticed, so that he didn't have to twist his aching sword arm out of the fabric. The thought made him pause, made his breath hitch around a blossom of warmth that unfurled in him, as if his chest hadn't been tight with apprehension just a moment ago. It disarmed Arthur in the strangest way, even more than the unsteadiness of Merlin's breathing—that Merlin had guessed correctly that his arm would be tender after a day spent training, that he knew of the soreness in his shoulder without being told.

Careful not to meet Merlin's eyes, Arthur allowed him to unlace his shirt, wincing only slightly when he pulled it over his head. Still, he couldn't help but let out a quiet sigh of relief when Merlin took the shirt and the vest and wandered over to their bags. He shed his breeches as quickly as he could, well aware that the fragility of the atmosphere wouldn't have survived the awkwardness if Merlin had helped him take off his trousers too. He felt knocked off kilter, imbalanced by the silence that stretched between them, and a part of him hoped that Merlin would say something, even if it was just idle chatter about their day.

The water was still hot when Arthur sunk down into the bath, and for a moment he just closed his eyes, blocking out Merlin's presence behind him, and let himself relish in the heat that engulfed his limbs. The tub was large and deep, submerging Arthur in water up to his shoulders. A faint scent of herbs drifted up from the bath, alleviating the fatigued ache behind his eyes.

"You can—," _go_ , Arthur had meant to say, but the last word died in his too-tight throat when he suddenly heard the familiar thump of Merlin dropping to his knees behind him. For a wild, dizzy moment, Arthur wondered if Merlin would help him wash like he'd used to—he could almost feel his hesitance in the air, and didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Merlin's hand appeared at the edge of his vision, holding out a bar of soap.

Arthur washed quickly but thoroughly, unable to enjoy the hot water as much as he wanted to with Merlin's gaze prickling on the back of his neck. His heart was beating out a quick, shallow rhythm, like a hunted animal preparing for a last desperate sprint to escape its prey. He didn't dare turn around, because he was acutely aware of the fact that Merlin was just _sitting_ there, watching him rinse the bubbles from his arms.

A splash sent a bit of water slopping over the edge of the tub, but Arthur couldn't contain his flinch when he suddenly felt Merlin's hand in his hair, oddly cool in contrast to the hot water that engulfed him from the chest down. "Tilt your head back," Merlin said, his voice quiet and rough, his fingers gently guiding Arthur to dip his head into the bath for a moment. Although he still felt shivery with surprise at Merlin's touch, Arthur complied, feeling a bit of the tension melt out of his shoulders when his neck was engulfed in heat.

He heard Merlin lather his hands with soap while he blinked water out of his eyes, and then Merlin's fingers were back, working soap into his hair with practiced ease. Arthur tried to sit very still rather than focus on how good the push and pull of Merlin's fingers felt on his scalp, little tingles chasing an echoing shiver down his spine. He focused his gaze on a green and silver drapery on the far wall, telling himself sternly that Merlin had helped him bathe like this hundreds of times before.

But Merlin's movements seemed slower than usual, more deliberate, like he was relearning the curve of Arthur's skull after having spent so many months shut out of his chambers. Arthur nearly yelped when soapy fingers slipped down behind his ears, and there was no way to stop the startled hitch of breath from slipping into a long sigh when Merlin experimentally dug his thumbs into his neck.

The drapery blurred in his vision, but Arthur didn't care, _couldn't_ care when the steady rub of Merlin's fingers followed the tense muscles up to his hairline. He wanted to tell Merlin that he didn't have to do this, that he was tired and should just head to bed. He wanted to tell himself that Merlin was just glad that he was allowed back into this part of Arthur's life, just as he'd been in the forest when Arthur had let him clean his daggers. But it just felt so _good_ , the pressure of Merlin's fingers riding the edge of pain in a way that stirred up a slow curl of heat in his veins.

He couldn't choke down the groan that escaped him when Merlin shifted his attention to his shoulders, letting his head fall forward to bare the tense muscles to the slow, rolling pressure of Merlin's fingers. Merlin didn't pause, but his breathing hitched in response, fanning out over Arthur's neck in a shivery exhale. Arthur felt more than heard him shift to get more leverage, grinding the heels of his hands into the fleshy part of his shoulders.

This time Arthur bit back the sound that tried to burst from his throat, and closed his eyes against the sensory overload. It felt like every tense muscle in his body was unraveling, the ache of exhaustion giving way to a warmth that seemed to engulf his very bones. His heartbeat was roaring in his ears, spurred on by the hot pulse of arousal that was starting to settle in to his groin, and Arthur wished he could surreptitiously hunch forward. He could feel his cock harden against his thigh no matter how much he tried to will it away.

Dimly, he heard Merlin shift behind him, but he didn't stop. It was like the hitches of Arthur's breathing were spurring him on, encouraging his fingers to seek out all the tightly-wound places to unravel. Every time Merlin kneaded his shoulders, his thumbs dug into the flesh just above the ridges of Arthur's shoulder blades, sending jolt after jolt of aching pleasure straight down to his loins.

Arthur tried to subtly squirm away, barely managing to stifle the low keen wrenched from his throat, but Merlin didn't let him. He paused for a moment, contemplating, his fingers lightly tracing the hidden tendons he'd been pressing. Then he buried his thumbs there once more, digging the ache out of that secret place he'd discovered almost by accident, patiently working through the balled-up resistance of hardened muscles until Arthur broke and shuddered all over, letting out a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob.

Through the fog in his mind, it took Arthur a moment to notice that Merlin's hands had stilled. He could feel each of Merlin's shallow exhales on his neck, like he was barely an inch away from leaning his forehead against the back of Arthur's head. "Too much?" he asked, the words little more than an outrush of breath.

Curling in on himself a little, Arthur wanted to groan in frustration. It _was_ too much, but at the same time it was not _nearly_ enough, and his cock was so hard it hurt, an insistent, heated pulse between his legs that just seemed to intensify the longer the silence stretched. He stared at the wall with unseeing eyes, at the candlelight's flickering shadows—only now did he notice that he was clutching the rims of the tub with white-knuckled fingers.

Merlin seemed to take Arthur's silence as an affirmative, because he let go of Arthur's shoulders with a mumbled apology, and Arthur let out a long, defeated sigh, shifting uncomfortably in the tub. Merlin thought he'd _hurt_ him, and now his touches were quick and efficient as he rinsed the soap out of Arthur's hair, a hand carefully shielding his eyes from the bubbles.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Merlin's arm, and saw that Merlin had pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, his hands wet and flushed with heat from the water. Arthur didn't dare let go of the tub, for fear of losing the rest of his dignity in case he found that he wouldn't be able not to reach down between his thighs for at least a small measure of relief.

He kept his gaze fixed on the chair that someone had thoughtfully pushed up next to the bath, a pile of neatly folded white towels waiting for him. Merlin wouldn't notice a thing if he could just be quick—Arthur would have stood up and wrapped a towel around his waist before he could blink. He swallowed hard, readying himself to leap up as soon as his manservant's fingers left his hair, and barely heard Merlin take a deep, shuddering breath behind him, preparing to speak.

"In the forest," Merlin started, his voice husky and rough and uncertain, like he'd spent the past half-hour dredging up the courage to say those words. Ice trickled through Arthur's veins when Merlin broke off, a slow, creeping cold that engulfed his chest despite the heat of the bath. He didn't need Merlin to finish that sentence—he could only think of one incident that would make him sound this hesitant.

Cursing the flush that crawled up his neck, Arthur forced himself to unclench his fingers, one by one, until his hands were just resting on the edge of the tub instead of gripping it like a lifeline. There was no other explanation for it—Merlin must have seen his erection in the water, and was now trying to reconcile this situation with that moment in the forest. Arthur squared his shoulders, and told himself that he should have seen this coming all along.

"I— apologize," he said tightly, fixing his gaze on the draperies again, and couldn't help a flash of gratitude because at least Merlin wasn't looking at him. "I took advantage," _like I am taking now_ , he didn't add, because the memory of Merlin's eyes suddenly pushed itself to the front of his mind, flickering from blue to gold and back again, filled with desperate need. "I shouldn't have—"

"What?" Merlin said blankly, incredulity coating his tone, and Arthur cringed at the thought of having to _explain_ this to his dense manservant, spell out what he was talking about until Merlin got it. But then Merlin spoke again, his voice half disbelieving and half annoyed. "No, you prat," and Arthur nearly laughed at that, because if Merlin could still insult his intelligence, maybe things weren't about to go irrevocably awkward between them, "I just—"

Merlin paused, and Arthur flinched when he felt tentative fingers on his shoulder again, the gentle touch not at all like the firm massage from before. For a moment he wondered if Merlin's courage had deserted him, but then Merlin cleared his throat and blurted out, clumsily, "I was just wondering if you'd like to do that again."

There was a short, ringing silence. Before Arthur knew what he was doing, he had turned around to face Merlin, heedless of the wave of soapy water that splashed onto the floor. " _What?_ "

Up close, Merlin looked just as wrecked as Arthur felt, his lower lip red and raw where he must have been biting down on it. A flush was burning high in his cheeks, his fringe curling with the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and his eyes looked nearly black in the candlelight, his pupils blown with unmistakable longing.

He stared back at Arthur for a moment, like he couldn't believe that he was being this slow. Then he rolled his eyes with a mutter of, "Oh, for the love of—," yanked Arthur forward with wet fingers in his hair, and kissed him.

To Arthur's credit, it only took him a split-second to catch up this time. Merlin's lips on his sent a jolt of sensation straight down to his toes, and this time Arthur didn't even try to choke back a gasp when a hot, rough tongue suddenly delved into his mouth. His hands found their way into Merlin's hair on their own accord, dampening the black strands into curls, but Merlin didn't seem to mind. His mouth was hot and wet, tasting of the diluted cider he'd drunk, but of something else as well, something sharp and spicy that tasted a little like magic and a lot like Merlin, and Arthur wanted to chase that taste until he found its source, a heated coil of need igniting all along his nerves.

His heartbeat hammering in his ears, Arthur didn't quite know how it happened, but suddenly they were both standing and he nearly tripped when he stepped out of the bath. Merlin gripped his shoulders and yanked him close, heedless of the water running in rivulets down Arthur's skin, but even though the white towels had seemed like a welcome escape just a moment ago, they were the last thing on Arthur's mind now, because Merlin— Merlin ran his teeth over Arthur's lower lip and pushed his leg between his thighs, and Arthur groaned helplessly, stumbling when his legs threatened to turn to jelly with the coarse drag of Merlin's trousers against his erection.

He didn't realize that Merlin was walking them backwards until Arthur's calves hit the familiar softness of a mattress. The fall into downy, plush blankets dizzied him, but before he could regain his breath, Merlin was suddenly straddling him, rocking his hips down so Arthur felt the unmistakable hardness there. His fingers felt stiff and unused, and it took him a couple of seconds to grip the hem of Merlin's shirt, wetting the fabric—but before he could pull it up, Merlin had scooted down a little, dislodging his grip.

"Let me," Merlin said—no, _commanded_ , although his voice was rough and husky. His eyes looked feverish and nearly black in the candlelight, his eyelids fluttering as if just the sight of Arthur lying under him, with his hair dripping water on the pillow, was enough to undo him. "God, _Arthur_ ," his name was almost a groan, "you have no idea what I— _touching_ you, all naked and wet and vulnerable, and I didn't know if you—"

"Vulnerable?" Arthur tried to repeat, indignantly, but the word was drowned out by a breathy sigh when Merlin suddenly lurched forward and put his hot, soft lips to Arthur's neck. He was— he was— Arthur gasped when Merlin's teeth grazed his skin. Merlin was _rutting_ against him, slow, deliberate circles of his hips in tandem with little flicks of his tongue as he licked the water off of Arthur's neck.

Then Merlin's weight shifted, and Arthur barely managed to choke down the whine that tried to escape at the loss of the wonderful, undulating pressure against his cock. He felt himself flush all over from the way Merlin just sat back and _looked_ at him for a moment, his unmistakably hungry gaze tracking the little drops of water that ran down Arthur's chest and pooled between the quivering muscles of his stomach.

As if the sight of him had overwhelmed Merlin's senses, he suddenly crumpled on top of Arthur, a shiver going through him as he hid his face in Arthur's neck. Merlin just pressed his forehead to his collarbone for a moment, trying to rein in his frantic breathing, and when that didn't work, he started to press clumsy, wet kisses to Arthur's sternum, his lips trailing a line of heat down to the sensitive skin of his stomach. Arthur squirmed mindlessly, each touch of Merlin's mouth setting his skin on fire; he could feel his erection leaking precome where it was squeezed snugly by the fabric of Merlin's shirt, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pressing his head back into the pillow to regain his focus.

With his eyes closed, Arthur didn't realize what Merlin was about to do until Merlin shifted again and _licked_ the tip of his cock, a tentative, slow flick of his tongue as if he'd been curious what it might taste like for a long time, and was now savoring the opportunity to find out. His hands had found their way to Arthur's thighs at some point, and Arthur was grateful because his hips bucked up on their own accord, spurred into motion by the jolt of sensation that went all the way down to his toes.

Merlin just looked up at him as he curled one hand around the base of his erection, his face flushed but calm, but Arthur couldn't quite savor the feeling through the instinctive stir of mortification in his gut. His groan felt like it was dragged out of him when Merlin experimentally slid his lips around the head of his cock again, a pulse of sharp, hot pleasure going through him. Frantic, half-finished thoughts were racing each other through his tangled mind, and he fought for breath, trying to silence the shuddering, pained hitch of his breathing.

He wanted to shove Merlin off and huddle in on himself, to hide the flush that had spread all the way down to his chest, to tuck away the unbalancing surge of pleasure and still his squirming hips. A part of him wanted to command Merlin to stop, and blurt out in a helpless rush of words that no one had ever done _that_ for him before, and that he was sure he wouldn't last long like this, with Merlin's long fingers giving his cock a reassuring squeeze even as he let the head slide out of his mouth again.

"Let me," Merlin repeated, as if he'd somehow heard Arthur's thoughts. His voice was barely above a hoarse whisper, but Arthur still heard the determination in his tone, and just knew that Merlin wouldn't take no for an answer.

Merlin didn't even wait for him to reply; he just held his gaze until he was swallowing down Arthur's cock again, his eyes fluttering shut when Arthur let out a noise that he hadn't thought he _could_ make, a throaty sound that was almost a growl. Hazily, he realized that Merlin had probably not done this before either, with the way he choked as he tried to take more and found he couldn't.

But it didn't matter, and even the distant embarrassment that lurked in the back of his mind didn't matter anymore, because the head of his cock was engulfed in glorious, wet heat, rubbing up against the roof of Merlin's mouth. Arthur's hips bucked again, he couldn't help it, but Merlin held him down securely, and the feeling of the firm hand on his hips sent another unexpected pulse of heat through him—knowing that he couldn't move, that he just had to lie there and take whatever Merlin wanted to give to him.

The sounds that escaped him would have been embarrassing in any other context, but if anything, the hitches of his breathing and the gasps that Arthur couldn't bite back just seemed to encourage Merlin. He was trying to establish some sort of rhythm, breathing noisily through his nose as he backed off a little to swirl his tongue around the tip of Arthur's erection as if to savor the salty bitterness he found. There was something primal and mindless in the way Merlin hollowed his cheeks and _sucked_ , the sudden tight, wet squeeze dragging a high, startled keen from Arthur's throat. It was like he didn't even spare a single thought for his own inexperience, and just tried out everything he could think of, hoping that it would feel good.

It wasn't surprising to feel the coarse prickle of pleasure sharpen suddenly, curling into a tight ball of heat that flared when Merlin rubbed his tongue over a spot just under the head of his cock that made stars burst behind Arthur's squeezed-shut eyelids. He tried to disentangle his hands from the sheets, only now realizing that he'd been clutching them in white-knuckled fists all along, to warn Merlin, to push him off. But he couldn't move, his bones were melting with the overwhelming, almost painful pleasure that built up in him like a wave waiting to break.

Merlin's mouth pulled at him mercilessly, like he knew Arthur was close and was doing everything he could think of to drive him over the edge. He took him deeper than he'd done before, velvety softness engulfing Arthur's erection when Merlin sucked once more, but this time he didn't choke and didn't stop, the rough wetness of his tongue tracing the sensitive ridge beneath the head, and Arthur came in a helpless rush, his back bowing off the bed as his hips stuttered forward with the force of his orgasm.

This time Merlin did choke, and Arthur heard him cough, felt Merlin's hand on his stomach as he tried to hold him down, but he couldn't stop, his spine a tight arch of pleasure as he rode the wave and tumbled back down. It felt like he kept coming forever, pulse after pulse of his semen coaxed from him by the convulsive clench of Merlin's throat around him as he tried his best to swallow. Then the heat in his veins subsided slowly, leaving behind a shivery, glowing warmth, and he was reaching for Merlin with shaking hands before his mind could catch up, pulling uselessly at the fabric of his shirt.

Merlin was climbing up to eye level again just when Arthur propped himself up into a sitting position with shaking arms, and for a moment he thought their foreheads would collide. Then Merlin's fingers were in his hair, still damp from the bath, and he was kissing Arthur, making a needy noise in the back of his throat when Arthur responded instinctively, licking the ripe bow of Merlin's bottom lip. He could taste himself in Merlin's mouth, and the salty tang should have been disgusting, or at least strange, but instead it just made him pull Merlin even closer.

His hands were lifting Merlin's tunic on their own accord, and this time Merlin let him, only reluctantly backing off to lift his arms. His face disappeared for a moment while Arthur pulled the shirt over his head, revealing flushed, creamy skin, and then something dark disentangled itself from the inside of Merlin's tunic, tumbling down into the rumpled sheets.

It was surprisingly hard to yank his gaze away from the smattering of coarse hair on Merlin's chest, but Arthur did it anyway, carefully picking up whatever had sunk between the creases of the blanket. It was a single leaf of ivy, silky and warm in Arthur's palm, heated up by Merlin's skin where it had been tucked into the folds of his shirt.

Arthur stared at the leaf for a moment, recognizing the plump freshness of life in the way it shimmered gently in the light. It should have been wrinkled and torn from days spent beneath Merlin's tunic, but it looked like it had just been plucked. He felt more than saw Merlin's puzzled gaze follow his, and Merlin made a choked, involuntary sound when he saw the leaf, his hand jerking like he wanted to reach out and take it back.

He looked almost scared, shaken out of the fog of heat and longing that had kept the two of them engulfed until a second ago. Merlin's gaze darted from the leaf up to Arthur's face and back again, and Arthur could all but see the gears turning in his head as he tried to come up with some sort of explanation. His eyes were wide and dark, disarmed even, and Arthur came to a decision.

Careful not to dislodge Merlin from where he was practically sitting in his lap, Arthur leaned over and put the leaf on the small table by their bed. Then he took Merlin's face between his now free hands, and pressed his forehead to Merlin's, not breaking his gaze although his vision went blurry with the close proximity.

The urge to capture Merlin's slack mouth with his own or press his lips to the worried creases between his eyebrows was almost overwhelming, but Arthur reined it in with a firm hand. If he kissed Merlin now, Merlin would close his eyes, and although Arthur had no idea where Merlin had gotten the leaf or what it meant, he knew that Merlin needed to see him now. He needed to hold Arthur's gaze and see that there was no reason to feel disarmed, that there was nothing to be on his guard against, and that Arthur would sit here and cradle his face between his hands until the skittish, guilty wariness left Merlin's eyes again.

Merlin let out a long, slow breath when he relaxed gradually, a soft exhale brushing Arthur's cheeks as Merlin's hands came up to clutch at his forearms and his eyes finally slipped shut. Now Arthur pressed a kiss to Merlin's unresisting lips, and another, just a close-mouthed peck until a sudden shudder went through Merlin as if he'd woken from a trance. Arthur rewarded him with another lingering kiss before he trailed his mouth down Merlin's neck, much like Merlin had done before, in the hopes that it would feel just as good for him.

Merlin's breathing was still unsteady, but it hitched audibly when Arthur brushed his lips over the spot where his pulse was fluttering wildly in his throat, and Arthur congratulated himself on a job well done. His fingers tangled in the laces of Merlin's breeches, and it took him a frustratingly long moment to pick them apart—he was acutely aware of the quiet gasps that Merlin let out every time his knuckles brushed his erection, hard and damp even through the fabric of his trousers.

Then Merlin's cock was a slick, silky weight in his hand, strange but not altogether unfamiliar, and Arthur wasted no time in wrapping his fingers around it and pulling. Merlin groaned low in his throat when his hips rocked forward, trying to get more of the aching relief of pressure after such a long time spent hard in the trappings of his breeches. He looked positively debauched, black hair damp and mussed from Arthur's hands, his face as flushed as if he'd been the one to soak in a hot bath before.

The strange angle made Arthur clumsy, but Merlin didn't seem to mind—he was already so far gone that he couldn't stop the way his hips were rocking steadily into Arthur's grip. Arthur tried to twist his wrist and thumb the leaking head of Merlin's cock on each upstroke, tried to go for what he knew felt good, although the mere sight of how Merlin bit his lip in a vain attempt to stifle his gasps was enough to make his heartbeat roar in his ears like a thunderstorm. There was something desperate in the way Merlin's hands came up to scrabble at Arthur's arms in search of something to hold on to, and he pitched forward to hide his hot, flushed face in Arthur's shoulder again.

Merlin's whole body shuddered every time Arthur squeezed the base of his erection, and Arthur coaxed him into lifting his head, pressing a sloppy, languid kiss to his slack lips. He wanted to see Merlin unravel under his touch, wanted to see the flush that had spread all the way down to his chest, the way he was hunching in on himself as if to curl protectively around the pleasure stirred to life in his groin. Merlin's eyes were closed, although his lids kept fluttering, and Arthur gave his bottom lip a last lick before he let it go.

"Look at me," Arthur murmured against his mouth, and casually rubbed his thumb down the vein, taking care to drag his callused palm over the head of Merlin's cock with the next stroke. Merlin's eyes flew open in shock at the sudden onslaught of pleasure, looking almost black in the dim light; his pupils were blown wide and glassy with pleasure, but it wasn't dark enough for Arthur to miss the briefest flash of gold in his irises.

He felt the moment Merlin let go, convulsively digging his fingernails into Arthur's forearms even as Arthur tried to keep up, brush the sensitive bundle of nerves on the underside of Merlin's erection—he was rewarded with a high, helpless moan, Merlin's hips jerking as his cock pulsed and spilled sticky, hot wetness into Arthur's palm. Arthur carried him through it, gently pulling until the tremors subsided and he felt Merlin soften in his hand.

Merlin exhaled a long, sleepy sigh, eyelids almost drooping now that his pleasure was spent. He tucked his face back into the curve of Arthur's neck, and Arthur quickly hid a smile in the messy tufts of black hair right in front of his face. He wiped his hand on a faraway corner of the sheets with a faint stir of smugness—the servants would have to clean that up, after all.

Lowering both of them back into the nest of pillows wasn't easy with Merlin a dead weight on top of him, but Arthur managed to settle them in bed without dislodging his sleepy manservant. Merlin made a protesting noise when Arthur yanked on the blanket to untangle it from his legs, but subsided when Arthur pulled it over both of them. He was lying half on top of Arthur in a messy sprawl, still wearing his untied breeches, but he wasn't complaining, and so Arthur didn't try to rouse him.

Gradually, Merlin's breathing slowed into a more normal pattern, and he shifted a little, his hair tickling Arthur's ear. Merlin's weight should have been annoying or at least uncomfortable, but instead it just felt inexplicably good to be anchored like this, Merlin's chest pressed up against Arthur's side and the steady, comforting heaviness of his arm slung across his ribcage.

Even without looking, Arthur knew that Merlin's eyes were opened to half-lidded slits, glittering in the candlelight as he let his body settle into the kind of drowsiness that heralded sleep. He would have thought that Merlin was watching him carefully for any sign of regret or shame for what they'd just done, but he could _feel_ how relaxed Merlin was against him, his stomach rising and falling with each deep breath against Arthur's ribcage. His arm was slowly falling asleep under Merlin's weight, half propped up against the headboard though they were, but to his own surprise, he found he didn't mind. He felt loose-limbed and sated as if after a long journey, the day's workout still present in the heavy soreness of his muscles.

A gust of wind rattled the half-open window, sending a cold breeze through the room. The weather had cooled down considerably since the afternoon, and even inside, the air tasted of rain and an impending thunderstorm. Arthur found himself grateful for the fact that none of them would have to sleep outside tonight.

"Light the fire, Merlin," he murmured lazily, his voice coming out low and rough. Merlin muttered something unintelligible but doubtlessly insulting under his breath, and Arthur poked at the goosebumps that had risen on his ribs until he found a ticklish spot.

Merlin squirmed away with a noise of complaint, unfurling his limbs and slowly moving to sit up. His hair had dried into messy tufts, sticking up at the back of his head, and Arthur couldn't help but grin when Merlin looked around blearily in search of his shirt. He looked thoroughly put out, but he untangled his legs from the blanket, shadows playing over the long line of his back as he moved to swing his feet over the edge of the mattress.

The thought struck Arthur before his relaxed mind had the time to brace itself. His hand shot out as if on its own accord, closing around Merlin's elbow to hold him back, and he wasn't surprised to find goosebumps there as well—the room had grown quite chilly. Merlin twisted around to give him an annoyed look that slid into uncertainty when he caught sight of Arthur's expression, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

"No," Arthur heard himself say, in a low voice that didn't sound like his own. He felt giddy, a shivery, weightless sensation gripping his stomach, and he tried to smile at Merlin to show him it was alright, although even Arthur himself had no idea if it really was. "From here."

Merlin stared at him, his mouth falling open at the implication. For a long moment they just looked at each other, disbelief warring with helpless hope in Merlin's eyes, a hope that Arthur had seen and dismissed countless times during the past few months, but just now he found himself welcoming it. He saw Merlin's throat work as he swallowed, and for a second he seemed about to ask Arthur where he thought this was heading, if he knew what he was asking, whether he'd lost his mind.

Arthur was glad when Merlin didn't speak, though, because he had no idea what he was doing either. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint sound of the wind outside and the occasional pop from a candle. His hand was still on Merlin's elbow, but Merlin looked as far away as Arthur had ever seen him, and Arthur felt his heart sink with the thought that he'd spoken too soon, that he should have given Merlin some kind of warning, that he had ruined this before it had even begun—

But then Merlin took a deep, hitching breath, and turned to the dark fireplace. Wood had been arranged into a careless pile amidst the last night's ashes. Arthur saw his shoulders hunch a little as if to brace himself for the inevitable, but Merlin extended a careful hand towards the fireplace, the candlelight gilding his skin. " _Bærne_ ," he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of the single word.

Flames burst to life in the fireplace, licking up into the chimney with a triumphant roar before they set to consuming the logs, popping sparks into the air. Rationally, Arthur had known that would happen, but he still stared at the merrily crackling fire for a couple of seconds even as the glow of gold faded from Merlin's eyes. The flames were bright and strong, looking like they had been burning for quite some time, although Merlin had just summoned them a second ago.

Merlin had hunched in on himself even more, his arms tense and quivering as he fought not to fidget with a corner of the blanket. A muscle twitched in his jaw, but he didn't turn around, just kept his gaze on the flickering flames he had conjured. He was staring at the fire to avoid looking at him, Arthur realized, and he sat up as well, curling his hand more securely around Merlin's elbow.

Right now, he could not think, _I am sitting next to a sorcerer_ , or even, _This is what he lied to me about for three years_. For some reason Arthur found himself remembering the evening at the hunting lodge instead, where Merlin's magic had woven the flames to resemble a dragon, spitting sparks into the dancing fire like something alive. He was thoroughly unprepared for the fierce surge of awe that went through him at the memory, and he wanted to wrap his arm around Merlin's tense back, gather him close and press his mouth to his hair until he uncurled again.

There was a lump in Arthur's throat, jagged and unyielding, but he didn't move for fear of startling Merlin into flight. He swallowed down the hot, achy sensation in his chest, and said, "Do something else."

That shocked Merlin into looking at him again, and Arthur noticed with a certain amount of alarm that his eyes glittered suspiciously in the firelight, although they were still blue. "What?" Merlin asked, his voice very, very small, like that had been just about the last thing he'd ever expected Arthur to say. Which couldn't be completely true, Arthur realized, because the hope was still there, hidden behind a shroud of guilty fear in Merlin's eyes, tucked clumsily out of sight like a crippling wound.

Arthur cleared his throat, looking away for a moment to give Merlin a much-needed moment to cling to the last of his composure. "Oh, I don't know," he said airily, careful to keep his tone light although steel bands seemed to have closed around his chest, making it rather hard to breathe. "I'm sure you can find something. This room is a mess."

It wasn't, not really, but Arthur heaved a mental sigh of relief when the words startled Merlin into a somewhat watery laugh. Even that sound was full of disbelief, and Arthur swallowed hard to keep himself from saying anything else. He raised an eyebrow at his manservant, dimly surprised how easy it was to keep his posture loose and relaxed even with Merlin's whole form brimming with tension just next to him.

Merlin blinked rapidly before he looked over to the window; his ears had gone red, a strange contrast to the unhealthy pallor of his face. A muscle twitched in Merlin's neck, the tendons pulling whipcord tight for a moment, and Arthur realized that he fought not to hide, not to lower his head as gold swirled through his irises again. This time Merlin didn't need to speak—the window closed as if on its own accord, shutting out the draft that had been cooling the air.

"Good," Arthur said, decisively, and settled back down into their nest of pillows, making a show of tucking his feet neatly beneath the blanket and closing his eyes. "Now we can finally get some rest."

There was a short pause, with the crackle of the fire and Merlin's choked, unsteady breathing the only sounds breaking the silence. Arthur's heartbeat was fluttering in his chest like a nervous bird, and he knew how stupid he looked, with one arm outstretched in an unmistakable invitation. The hollow at his side was still warm with Merlin's residual body heat, making the loss of Merlin's weight against his ribcage all the more acute.

"Wouldn't want you to miss out on your beauty sleep," Merlin said at last, his voice wobbling and husky, but Arthur heard him shift around before he slowly, awkwardly lowered himself back to his side.

It was hard to hold still until Merlin had settled, his body tense as a bowstring ready to fire, but he managed not to move until he felt Merlin's cheek touch his collarbone. It might have been a little damp, but Arthur didn't mention it, just curled his arm around Merlin's shoulders again.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Merlin put a trembling, tentative hand on his chest, letting out a long, unsteady breath that sounded like he'd been holding it in his lungs for far too long. And just like that, the lump was back in his throat as if Arthur had never swallowed it down, a sudden assault of cutting, aching tenderness that he wanted to bury in the soft hollow of Merlin's collarbone where no one would ever find it.

Arthur flicked his ear instead, and Merlin huffed but didn't retaliate. Even his breathing sounded exhausted, his eyelashes tickling Arthur's neck when he closed his eyes. Gradually, he relaxed against Arthur's side, the tension melting out of his limbs, and Arthur finally let himself exhale, too, his eyes drifting shut to the sound of the first drops of rain hitting the window.

 

 

Although he'd woken up feeling relaxed and well-rested for what seemed like the first time in ages, by the time Merlin reached the dining hall the next morning, the heavy lassitude had dissipated from his limbs, leaving behind a strange, shivery sense of alarm.

The hall was empty, but several used plates littered the table, discarded goblets shimmering in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. He'd woken up remarkably late, and it was only his growling stomach that had chased him downstairs in the first place. He would have loved to stay in bed for another couple of hours, if only to watch Arthur sleep and listen to the soft snores that he knew the prince would deny vigorously later. But no matter how warm and safe he'd felt in their cocoon of blankets and entangled limbs, he'd been hungry.

It was only out in the stairwell that the memory of the previous evening had come rushing back into Merlin's mind. He'd hurried down the deserted hallways, heart pounding in his throat, with his gaze constantly roaming the corridors for any sign of the servants. Thankfully, he hadn't encountered anyone, and had breathed out a sigh of relief when the door to the dining hall had fallen shut behind him.

Absently grabbing an apple from a plate of fruits on the table, Merlin walked over to the window. It had stopped raining, but the trees were still dripping with moisture, the lawn a deep emerald green as the grass greedily drunk up every drop of water that soaked the earth. Clouds hung heavy in the sky, seeming to brush the treetops with rain-filled gray.

The clanging of weapons reached his ears even through the glass, and Merlin took a big bite out of his apple when he spotted Leon and Lancelot out in the backyard. They were sparring, but it seemed halfhearted, their movements stiff and listless like they were just training because there wasn't anything else to do. Their shirts were spotted with wetness from the dripping leaves above them, and Merlin suddenly remembered the laundry he'd hung up the day before.

He craned his neck, but couldn't see even a scrap of colored fabric peek through the clusters of trees that were scattered in the backyard. Maybe Ragnelle had had the presence of mind to take down her own laundry and put his inside as well when the downpour had started. They only had a day left before they'd head for the Green Chapel, and Merlin rather hoped that he wouldn't be hauling along a big bag of sopping wet laundry. He could already hear Arthur complain about the lack of clean clothes.

A shadow caught his attention from the very edge of his vision; turning his head, Merlin wasn't all that surprised to catch sight of Ragnelle, since he'd already been thinking of her. She had her back half turned to him and was looking at something he couldn't see—Merlin shifted closer to the window, and this time he _was_ astonished to see Percival there.

It seemed like they'd both been on their way to different destinations. They were standing on the stairs leading up to the back door; Ragnelle looked distinctly wet, her hair a tangled damp mess atop her head like she'd just taken a long walk through the soaked forest. Percival must have been on his way down to the training grounds when they'd met. Merlin couldn't hear their voices through the window, but they were talking avidly—well, avidly by Ragnelle's standards, at least. There was a hesitant note in the way she was carrying herself, something oddly hopeful in her cocked head, tilted back so she could look Percival in the eye. She seemed more relaxed than Merlin had ever seen her, even her shoulders letting go of the tension she'd carried around with herself ever since they had arrived at Grænn's house.

Merlin averted his gaze, feeling uncomfortable for staring at them like that, and took a step back from the window again to avoid being seen. Apple juice was running down his hands, and he absently licked it off while he let his eyes travel across the rest of the garden. It seemed empty even of lurking servants—apparently they had better things to do than spy on their lord's guests this morning. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he chewed on the last of the apple's pulp. The thought of what the servants really were still freaked him out.

But something caught his eye again, something dark that didn't seem to fit in with the shades of green that dominated the backyard. Merlin put the apple core down and squinted at it, trying to make sense of its odd shape, half-hidden as it was by a cluster of bushes. It was dark like damp leather, a metal buckle glistening wetly in the wan daylight. Merlin suddenly realized that it was a booted foot, and after a puzzled moment, he recognized it as belonging to Gwaine.

He muttered a distracted greeting to Percival and Ragnelle on his way outside, barely noticing that they both fell silent as soon as they spotted him, as if they weren't sure if they wanted to be seen talking to each other. But well, he couldn't blame Percival for being cautious, since he'd probably already been teased within an inch of his life by Gwaine—or not, considering Gwaine's current preoccupation with his personal impending doom.

Dodging wet branches and dripping bushes on the way, Merlin made his way over to where he'd seen Gwaine's foot. The wet grass darkened his boots, doing its best to soak through the leather, but Merlin didn't stop even when he felt his toes get damp. He could almost hear the little green stalks drink up any and all water they could sink their tiny roots into, thirsty after such a long time of uninterrupted sunshine.

Gwaine was sitting on a fallen log next to the fenced area that harbored their horses, watching them as he absently twirled a long stalk of grass between his fingers. The grass was uncut here, slowly soaking wet patches into his trousers even as a small beech tree trickled drop after drop of water onto his head. His hair was in disarray, sticking up like he'd been running his fingers through the dark brown strands.

Merlin stopped next to Gwaine, not quite sure whether he should sit down as well—the log looked rather damp, and he didn't fancy getting a wet patch on the bottom of his only clean pair of trousers. And he also wasn't sure if Gwaine even wanted his company right now. There were dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept the night before, and Merlin could tell from the careful way he turned to look up at Merlin that he was nursing a headache.

Gwaine didn't really smile at him—it was more like a quick twitch of his lips, over again within a second, but Merlin still appreciated the effort. Then he turned back to the horses, watching as Llamrei slowly grazed her way across the field, her back shiny but not damp; the horses must have found shelter beneath the trees during last night's downpour.

"You're getting wet," Merlin told Gwaine at last, for lack of anything more encouraging to say. A slight breeze shook the beech, raining even more fat drops of water down on him, but he just shrugged, not taking his gaze off of the horses.

As if he'd felt the lingering stare of his master, Gryngolet stepped out from a copse of trees, following in Llamrei's wake in search of the most delicious patches on the field. There were grass stains on his white flanks, like he'd rolled around in the juicy grass more than once, for sheer joy of being free of a saddle. As Merlin watched, he lifted his head and looked at them, ears pricked up with interest. His eyes seemed to focus on Gwaine, as if to say, _see how dirty I am? You'll have to brush me all by yourself_ , and next to Merlin, Gwaine let out a soft chuff of laughter like he'd seen the silent message in his horse's gaze as well.

"I've been thinking," Gwaine began abruptly, after another minute of silence. He still wasn't looking at Merlin, although his voice was casual, almost mocking, but Merlin could tell that the slight bitterness was not directed at him. "You said the Green Knight is magic, right?"

Merlin nodded silently, and Gwaine glanced at him from the corner of his eye before he looked back to the horses, a mirthless smile twisting his mouth. "I think he must have put some sort of chivalry spell on me. A spell that keeps me from running for the hills and makes me all _noble_ and morally upright."

"You _are_ noble," Merlin said quietly, well aware that the words were falling on deaf ears right now, but needing to say them anyway. This was exactly the kind of mood that he had no idea how to respond to. He could have found some way to deal with anger or desperation or even glum acceptance, but not with self-deprecating cynicism.

"Not brave, though," Gwaine said, with an expression that he probably meant to look like one of his trademark sunny grins. It was more of a grimace, though, and Gwaine seemed to notice, because he smoothed his features back into blankness again, save for a slight frown born of his headache.

"You don't really believe that," Merlin objected, more firmly this time. He knew that the dull bitterness in Gwaine's voice was just a thin veneer covering the helpless fear that probably roiled beneath, but although his instinct told him to back off a little, Merlin couldn't just let him _say_ things like that. "And anyway, I don't think it's possible to make someone noble with magic."

"You wouldn't know," Gwaine muttered, more to himself than to Merlin; it sounded like his thoughts had already moved on. But the words cut through the fond concern in Merlin's mind like a knife through butter, making him flinch and draw in a startled breath although Gwaine had clearly not meant anything by them.

He stared down at Gwaine's bowed head, watched him shift back on his log until he could lean against the beech that rewarded him with another spray of water for the added weight against its trunk. He told himself that Gwaine didn't know what he'd just implied, that he _couldn't_ know because Merlin hadn't told him, no matter how close he'd come during their conversation on the stairs yesterday.

It might just have been some residual adrenalin from the night before, but it happened too quickly for Merlin's mind to catch up. He felt his spine straighten on its own accord, his heart suddenly pounding nauseatingly close to his throat, but since it wasn't really a conscious decision, he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. "I do know," he said, more loudly than he'd intended, his voice echoing slightly across the wide field in front of them.

Gwaine snorted quietly and closed his eyes against the daylight, clearly not catching on to what Merlin was trying to say. Merlin swallowed hard, somewhat reassured because at least he didn't have to look at his friend's face, wouldn't have to see surprise morphing into distrust and finally settling on anger or fear or both. "I _do_ know, Gwaine, because I—," and of course his voice chose that exact moment to break, although it was nothing like that evening in Arthur's chambers, nowhere near as terrifying.

Gwaine cracked an eye open to squint at him, just when Merlin finally blurted out, "Gwaine, I have magic," and snapped his mouth shut before anything else could fall out. He'd tried to sound decisive and firm, rather than desperately apologetic, but there was no way to disguise the pleading note in his tone, no matter how much he wished he had the strength to will it away.

There was a long, tense pause, only interrupted by the deafening roar of blood in Merlin's ears and the stumbling beat of his heart. Then Gwaine closed his eyes again, turned his face towards the sky, and said, with feeling, "God, I've got a hangover."

For a solid minute, Merlin just stared at him. His hands had grown clammy and cold at his sides, making him shiver with something more than nerves. A sudden gust of wind stirred the damp tangles of Gwaine's hair, but he didn't open his eyes, didn't even seem to reconsider Merlin's words. Either that, or he'd already known, Merlin thought a little wildly, a slightly hysterical laugh trying to bubble up in his throat at the thought.

"I'm _serious_ ," he insisted, suddenly almost angry at Gwaine for the dismissal. He latched on to the feeling and clung to it, because anger was _safe_ , a step above the terrible, crushed hope he'd left behind in Arthur's chambers that evening, far better than the squirming mass of snakes that his insides seemed to have turned into.

Not caring about the dampness that seeped into his breeches from the long grass, Merlin marched around the log until he was blocking Gwaine's view of the horses. His heart was fluttering wildly in his throat, but his arm was steady when he thrust out his hand towards Gwaine, palm facing the sky. "Watch."

Gwaine blinked up at him, mildly astonished at his harsh tone; up close, Merlin could see how tired he really looked, his face paler than usual, but right now he discarded that thought. " _Bærne_ ," he whispered to his hand, for the second time in barely a day, and under the shroud of irritation, it was surprisingly easy to look Gwaine straight in the eye when he felt his irises burn gold.

Curiously enough, Gwaine jerked forward rather than back, his hands coming up as if to bat out the fire that had burst to life in Merlin's palm. Then he stilled suddenly, his eyes going wide and amazed when his gaze zeroed in on the dancing flames, his mouth dropping half open when he felt the heat emanating from the fire, making it real, rather than a cleverly crafted hallucination.

It didn't warm Merlin, though. He felt cold all over, every breath trying to hitch in his chest when a slow trickle of panic slid into his mind as he realized what he was doing. He hadn't just _told_ Gwaine about the magic, he was showing him, too, and he knew, he _knew_ that Gwaine wouldn't run to Uther when they returned to Camelot, but still— Merlin could feel his arm shaking now, his muscles trembling with the effort it took him not to snatch his hand back and deny that he'd ever said anything.

Unaware of Merlin's inner turmoil, Gwaine leaned closer to his hand, examining the fire from different angles as if to understand the trick behind it. The look of fascinated curiosity on his face chipped off a little of the icy silence in Merlin's head, especially because the barest quirk of a smile was tucked into the corner of Gwaine's mouth—it could grow into one of those grins Gwaine was so good at, one that might lift the shroud of desperate anxiety from Merlin's mind.

His gaze traveled up Merlin's arm until their eyes locked, but Gwaine was completely focused on him now, fully aware of Merlin's presence for the first time that day. "Could you dry my trousers without moving them?" he inquired, motioning to the damp legs of his breeches, honest curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

Merlin gaped at him for a second, but this time, it was exasperation rather than genuine anger that jerked him out of his stupor. He threw up his hands, just barely stopping himself from running his fingers through his hair and setting his own head on fire, "I've just told you I'm a _sorcerer_ ," he spat, "which could get me _executed_ as soon as the wrong people find out—," he noticed that Gwaine's fascinated gaze kept following his gesturing hand, still cradling a ball of flames, and Merlin impatiently flicked his wrist to put the fire out, "—and all you can think of is your _wet ass?_ "

"I'm not from Camelot," Gwaine pointed out, his eyes calm and untroubled as he looked up at Merlin, finally focusing on him rather than the extinguished flames. "Well, I might be a little, now, but just because I'm getting used to being a knight doesn't mean I'll accept each of those petty laws at face value."

"Petty laws?" Merlin repeated weakly, barely hearing his own voice over the noise of his heartbeat in his ears. The annoyance had drained out of his mind, leaving him to feel cold and exposed. There was something he was missing, he was sure of it—Gwaine _couldn't_ just accept this so easily, without even a hint of anger or disappointment that Merlin had kept this from him for so long.

"Is that the invisible weight you've been carrying around all this time?" Gwaine asked, not bothering to grace Merlin's words with a reply. He was watching him with understanding dawning slowly in his eyes, like a couple of abandoned clues were finally slotting together to form a bigger picture.

Merlin shrugged uneasily, swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in his throat, although he wasn't surprised when it didn't work. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you until now," he said, hating the tremble in his voice because it left him open to attack, it eroded away all the confidence that irritation had shrouded him in earlier.

But before he could properly defend himself against what he knew was coming, comprehension lit up Gwaine's eyes again, and he leaned forward on his log, not seeming to notice that the tree trunk had dampened the back of his shirt. "That's what Arthur was angry with you about," he said, not as a question, but rather like stating a fact. "The reason why he barely spoke to you all these months."

Merlin found himself squirming under Gwaine's suddenly hard stare, dimly wondering where Gwaine was going with this. It wasn't like the memory of Arthur's reaction to his magic would soften the blow if Gwaine decided to cut him out of his life as well. "Yes, but we've come a long way since I told him—"

"You told him of your own free accord?" Gwaine pressed, his gaze like a physical grip that kept Merlin from looking away. His voice had gone dangerously quiet. "He barely spoke to you all these months because you _told him_ , because you _trusted_ him?"

A distinct sense of alarm began to stir in Merlin's stomach, and he only managed a strange jerking motion somewhere between a nod and a shrug. It wasn't like it didn't matter anymore, even now that he and Arthur were finally patching up what had gone twisted and wrong between them. Those weeks had been the hardest of Merlin's life, and he was sure he would remember them for years to come, until the memory blurred with time and the trembling, exhilarated warmth that had gripped him the night before, when Arthur had said, _"Do something else,"_ amazement in his eyes.

Gwaine stood abruptly, the beech brushing his head with damp leaves. His gaze wasn't amazed at all—it was flat and cold as stone, his eyes darker than usual as he strode around Merlin, heading back towards the house. He didn't say anything, but the hard, determined look on his face gave Merlin quite a good impression of what he was going to do.

"No!" Merlin shouted, startling a flock of small birds into flight from the trees. His feet slipped on the wet grass when he started to run after Gwaine, flailing wildly as he tried to steady himself. He ended up barreling into Gwaine's back, nearly knocking him off balance, and had to cling to his arm with both hands to keep from falling flat on his face.

"Gwaine, it's _fine_ , I promise," Merlin blurted out, frantically hanging on to Gwaine with all of his weight to stop him, but he was just hauled along with his friend's bigger strides. "He's not mad at me anymore, he's doing his best to— no, really, he _is_ ," he insisted when Gwaine just scoffed, his dark, furious gaze still fixed on the house as if he wanted to set it on fire to get to Arthur faster. "I think he's come to understand a lot of things that he didn't get before, we're going to be _fine_ , you don't need to beat him up—"

Finally, Gwaine whirled around to face him, but Merlin's sigh of relief got stuck in his throat when he caught sight of his furious expression. "You were like a _ghost_ , Merlin," Gwaine hissed, his fingers suddenly digging into Merlin's shoulders. "You ate and you slept and you spoke when someone talked to you, but you were so— you tried to put on a brave face, but you certainly didn't fool _me_. It was like you weren't even really _there_ anymore!"

Merlin took a deep, steadying breath, and then another, until the tight ache in his chest loosened a little. He could see the remains of distant, anguished concern in Gwaine's eyes, dragged up to the surface by his own words, and it shook something loose within him, the thought that his friend was so furious on _his_ behalf. It made him feel suddenly, desperately close to tears, although there was gratitude there as well, mingling with the shivery, warm ache in his chest.

Still, he couldn't let Gwaine direct all of his anger at Arthur, righteous though it might have been. "I understand why he was so angry," Merlin said, fighting to keep his voice calm and steady. "I lied to him for three years—"

"You didn't lie about what was truly important!" Gwaine snapped, just shy of shouting outright. His voice echoed through the backyard, and he shook Merlin, not hard, but more like he wanted him to understand. "You didn't lie about being his friend or your loyalty to him!"

But Merlin shook his head, reaching up to grab Gwaine's arm, both to steady himself and to make him listen. "To Arthur, the fact that I kept my magic secret for so long _was_ important," he insisted, willing the words to force their way through the defiance he could see sparking in his friend's eyes. "Look, I'm sorry—"

Gwaine laughed, a single bark of mirthless sound, but that didn't distract Merlin from the nearly anguished twist of his mouth when he almost pleaded with him to "stop _apologizing_ , for God's sake, Merlin." Merlin closed his eyes for a moment to gather his courage, to will away the brittle, trembling feeling in his throat.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you what was wrong all this time," he said, meeting Gwaine's gaze with all the calmness he could muster, and was relieved that his voice didn't shake. "But you have to understand that no matter how angry you are, _this_ —whether or not to forgive Arthur—this is not you decision to make."

For a long, silent moment, Gwaine just stared at him, clearly taken aback by the firmness in Merlin's tone. Merlin waited with bated breath, his heart thrashing uneasily in his chest as he hoped that his words would sink in. On the one hand he felt honored, cherished almost, to have Gwaine come to his defense so vigorously. But on the other, he couldn't let Gwaine take his anger out on Arthur. It was Merlin's call, Merlin's choice if he wanted to hold a grudge or let it go, and his decision had been made long ago.

He saw the moment Gwaine understood. His shoulders drooped, and his hold on Merlin loosened although he didn't let go. He fixed Merlin with a long, questioning stare, as if to make sure that he was serious about his words, but when Merlin didn't even flinch, Gwaine sighed and looked away. Maybe he recognized the similarity to the conversation they'd had the other day, when Merlin had offered to take care of things with the Green Knight and Gwaine had refused. Either way, he didn't pull away to hunt Arthur down anyway, and Merlin allowed himself a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, though," he said gently, pitching his voice low as he leaned closer, trying to catch Gwaine's gaze again. "For protecting me. I— I appreciate it."

There was a long silence, only broken by the faint rustling of leaves all around the backyard. Gwaine stared out at the field behind Merlin, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but Merlin pushed back the urge to speak again, to explain himself more. He had said what he'd needed to say, and now it was up to Gwaine what he wanted to do with it. And finally Gwaine nodded once, jerkily, before meeting Merlin's eyes again, like it was still hard to accept what he'd been told. His smile was a bit tight around the edges, but he squeezed Merlin's shoulders before he let him go at last.

Neither of them said anything for a moment; then Gwaine turned and resumed his walk back to the house. His steps were slow and deliberate, like he had to think carefully about where he put his feet, but at least he wasn't running towards the back door for Arthur's blood anymore. Merlin watched him go, trying to give in to the relief that coursed through his veins. He had the distinct feeling that this wasn't the end of the whole issue, and he suspected that Gwaine might still take Arthur aside for a few choice words when they were safely back in Camelot, but at least he had calmed down for now.

It was only now, with the tension slowly melting out of his shoulders, that Merlin realized Gwaine hadn't been angry with _him_. Judging from the look on his face, he'd been ready to strangle Arthur with his own entrails, but never once had he seemed disappointed in _Merlin_ for the secret he'd been keeping.

And the stunned, wondering part of him wanted to run after Gwaine and tell him how much that meant to him, wanted to lay his relief at his feet like an overwhelmed gift. And he swallowed hard against the obstruction in his throat when he realized that with Gwaine, Merlin didn't _need_ to humble himself like that, that Gwaine did not need his gratitude as payment for his acceptance.

Merlin exhaled slowly to combat the dizziness that gripped him, wiping his clammy hands on his trousers as he allowed himself a trembling smile. It was more than he'd ever dared to hope for, but then again, Gwaine was nothing if not prone to doing the unexpected.

 

 

By the time Arthur got downstairs, the heavy lassitude of sleep had already faded from his mind, leaving him jittery and strangely on edge.

He'd followed the familiar labyrinth of hallways and stairwells down to the dining hall to find that everyone else had already eaten, but he hadn't been surprised. Merlin had been gone when he'd woken up this morning, a cooling indent left in the mattress where he'd lain—Arthur had assumed that he'd gone downstairs to get some food. After the shock he'd received last night when he had learned the truth about Grænn, his manservant had most likely woken up ravenous.

It was around lunchtime when Arthur finished off his breakfast, which consisted of an apple and a cold piece of grilled boar from last night. He could hear the faint clashing of steel from outside and knew that some of his knights were sparring in the backyard, ever faithful to their duty even this far away from Camelot. But restlessness kept him from joining them, and so he settled for striding around the house for a while, aimlessly exploring the endless maze of corridors.

His mind was already whirling with thoughts of tomorrow, planning ahead for their departure. They would need to pack tonight at the very latest, and Arthur had to figure out some sort of strategy to get Grænn to lead them to the Green Chapel. But maybe their host would at least be forthcoming with that particular piece of information, since it had to be in his best interest to guide Gwaine to the place where he had to face his challenge.

And after that, they would have to race back to Camelot. He was already mapping out a different, less meandering route than the one they'd taken on their journey—he would make sure that they crossed the border into Camelot as soon as possible. Then he could finally find the squires and send a messenger to his father to let him know that they were safely coming home. But then he also had to make up a good story about what had happened to the murdered noblemen. Somehow, Arthur doubted that his father would be thrilled to hear that a forest spirit was responsible for their deaths, especially since Morgana was the real culprit behind the whole scheme.

Arthur sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he rounded a corner and walked down an unfamiliar corridor. For a brief moment, he wished himself back into bed with Merlin, if only to escape the spiral of thoughts—the facts remained the same, no matter how often he turned them over in his head. It didn't help that everyone assured him that Morgana's mind had become just as unhinged as Uther's; he still didn't know what he would say or do when he finally saw her again after all this time. He'd probably be too busy fending off her Mercian entourage anyway, all the while trying not to trip over Gwaine's severed head in the affray.

Like callused fingers sticking on fabric, his mind got caught on the matter of Gwaine, and Arthur paused his steps in the middle of a dimly lit stairwell. Maybe the knight was part of the reason why Arthur felt so restless, although the thought made him scoff—heaven forbid he felt anything like sympathy for him. For some reason, the whole thing was still unreal to Arthur, like a part of him expected to wake up from this strange dream any second. It just felt _wrong_ to think that Gwaine would probably die tomorrow just because he'd been reckless enough to accept the Green Knight's challenge.

Slowly making his way down the rest of the stairs, Arthur heard a door open and close when he reached a wide corridor whose windows looked out on the backyard. As if he'd been summoned by Arthur's thoughts, Gwaine suddenly strode into his line of vision, crossing the hallway with long steps that somehow looked aggravated.

He paused only for a moment when he saw Arthur, sideswiping him with a foul look before he turned abruptly, ducking into a smaller, much less inviting passage as if he didn't want to walk past him. Arthur blinked after him in puzzled astonishment, wondering what he'd done now to deserve that glare; but then again, maybe it was just the fact that he existed, and would continue to exist past tomorrow.

Sighing deeply, Arthur squared his shoulders, trying to brace himself before he started to walk after Gwaine. It didn't matter now whether he approved of the other knight's rash behavior that had landed him in this situation in the first place. He was Gwaine's liege, and although Arthur was well aware that Gwaine probably wouldn't even let himself be reassured by _him_ , he knew he had to try. It was his duty as Gwaine's prince, fellow knight, and even a kind of friend.

There was a muffled exclamation from ahead before Arthur could catch up with Gwaine, though, and he slowed his steps until he could peek around a bend in the corridor to watch. He was surprised to see that Gwaine had ran straight into Ragnelle, causing her to drop most of the armload of towels she'd been carrying.

For a moment, Arthur thought Gwaine would storm away in the other direction. But then he took a deep, steadying breath, pushing away the brooding thoughts that had occupied his mind, and bent down to help Ragnelle pick up the towels. "Sorry," he offered, forced cheer lighting his voice. "I should've watched where I was going."

Ragnelle shrugged, a brief flash of embarrassment crossing her features before she composed herself again. "It's okay," she said, and did her best to give him a reassuring smile. "I was looking for you anyway."

They both straightened up again when the last towel was back in Ragnelle's arms, and for a moment they just stood there in awkward silence, as if they were both waiting for something. Despite his awkward vantage point from around the corner, Arthur could see their faces clearly, illuminated by what little daylight trickled in through a narrow window.

"What, no kiss for me today?" Gwaine said at last, when the hush had stretched for too long. His tone was mildly teasing, belying the strain that Arthur could still hear in his voice. Arthur gaped at Gwaine's profile, taken aback by his blunt, cryptic words, not quite daring to believe that he had really just said that.

Ragnelle twitched like she wanted to chase away an annoying fly, but didn't answer right away. Her gaze slowly traveled up and down Gwaine's body instead, taking in his damp clothes and the dark circles under his eyes, standing out even more in his uncharacteristically pale face. "Are you alright?"

Arthur blinked, surprised that she didn't seem offended by his question. He had expected her to just walk off in the other direction, or even slap Gwaine with her free hand, but Ragnelle's gaze was steady when she fixed it on Gwaine's face once more, no hint of anger on her features.

"Never been better," Gwaine said airily, in as clear a lie as Arthur had ever heard him tell. Ragnelle just raised her thin, colorless eyebrows at him, and to Arthur's surprise, Gwaine shifted his weight uneasily before he shrugged. "Well, I have a headache. I don't know what's wrong with me—I keep getting hangovers here."

"Maybe my husband's cider is stronger than what you're used to," Ragnelle replied, her voice even, but there was something else in her tone, an undefinable undercurrent that sent a fissure of unease through Arthur.

Gwaine must have heard it too, because he paused in the act of scoffing to stare at her, his eyes going narrow. Hesitance flickered across Ragnelle's features, but then she seemed to steel herself, visibly squaring her shoulders. She took a quick look around the deserted corridor to make sure that no one else was listening; Arthur pressed himself closer to the wall, but the corner was blocking her view of him.

Ragnelle leaned closer to Gwaine as if to tell him a secret. "Maybe you've gotten yourself in trouble," she said, more quietly now, and Arthur had to strain his ears to hear the hushed words, "the kind of trouble that you don't know how to deal with now."

Frowning, Arthur crept a little closer to the hallway, trying to make sense of that. It sounded like she knew something about the situation Gwaine was in, although he had no idea how Ragnelle could have heard of the Green Knight's challenge. Gwaine seemed to think the same thing. He stared at her in utter disbelief, his face going even paler in the wan light—the dark circles under his eyes stood out all the more, and Arthur wondered if he'd even slept at all.

"I know you think your situation is hopeless," Ragnelle ventured, looking more hesitant than before, now that she had already unsettled him so much. Her eyes seemed to implore him to trust her for the moment, though, and sure enough, Gwaine wasn't walking away yet, and made no move to dismiss her. "But I have something to help you."

She started rummaging through the towels she was carrying, turning them over as she looked for something she must have hidden between them. Arthur craned his neck, trying to get a better vantage point without stepping even closer—he was acutely aware that Gwaine would only have to turn his head to see him, and that Ragnelle would spot him as well if she stepped any closer. But the scene unfolding before him reeked of secrecy, and Arthur knew he just had to watch, hoping that he might eventually understand what was going on.

"Here," Ragnelle murmured at last, softly, and tugged something out from between the towels. Her eyes were downcast, focused on whatever she was holding for a moment; Arthur only caught sight of a flash of green before her arm hid the item from view. "I want you to take this."

She held it out to Gwaine at last, and Arthur saw that it was a girdle, made of silky, grass-green cloth that shimmered in the dim light. It had been finely embroidered with silver thread, forming a pattern of ivy leaves that stretched down all the way to the clasp. Although there were no wrinkles in the fabric and it seemed freshly woven, the girdle still looked strangely old-fashioned to Arthur, like something from a century long past.

"Well, thanks," Gwaine said, plainly confused as he took the girdle from her hands. Ragnelle smiled, but didn't seem to mind his lack of enthusiasm. For the first time, Arthur noticed how relieved she looked all of a sudden, now that Gwaine had accepted her gift—he hadn't realized how tense she'd been before, but now it seemed like a weight had been taken off her shoulders.

"It's magic," she explained, rearranging her towels from the state of disarray that her search had left them in. She seemed to try for a nonchalant tone in case anyone was eavesdropping on them, but her eyes were still insistent, her gaze holding Gwaine's as she willed him to understand the meaning behind her words. "Wear it close to your skin, and it will protect you from harm."

Through the jolt of surprise, Arthur found himself staring at the girdle once more, but it didn't _look_ like it possessed any supernatural powers. It was just a long fold of cloth, running silkily through Gwaine's fingers as he ran an experimental hand over the fabric. But then again, Arthur mused, surprised at the fondness of the thought, Merlin didn't look particularly magical either until his eyes flashed gold.

Arthur focused his gaze on Gwaine, unsettled by the other knight's prolonged silence. He was staring down at the pattern of ivy on the fabric, stroking a callused thumb over the embroidery, and understanding dawned in his eyes. He could wear it tomorrow, Arthur realized, with a jolt of uneasy surprise—he could wear it beneath his tunic and escape from the Green Knight's trial unscathed, if the magic did indeed work like Ragnelle said it would.

But there was no relief in Gwaine's face when he looked up at Ragnelle again, although he gave her a small nod to show that he understood. "Thank you," he repeated, more sincerely this time, but his voice sounded troubled. Just like that, Arthur knew that Gwaine would spend the rest of the day staring at the green fabric and wondering whether he should wear it tomorrow. Other men might have put it on immediately, but the conflicting emotions that Arthur could see in Gwaine's eyes set off an unexpected stirring of pride in Arthur's chest.

Ragnelle inclined her head, shifting her armful of fabric once more. She watched Gwaine carefully for a moment, like she knew what thoughts were running through his mind. All of a sudden, Arthur felt suspicion creep up on him like a fog, and he found himself wondering where she'd gotten the girdle in the first place. They weren't in Camelot, and it wasn't illegal to own magical artifacts here in Mercia, but it still puzzled him. And if Ragnelle truly knew of Gwaine's predicament, why was she giving him the girdle only now, on the third and last day of their stay?

Whatever she had seen in Gwaine's face seemed to satisfy her, because she finally lowered her gaze and bit her lip. "You will be gone tomorrow, and my task is almost done," she said hesitantly, jolting Gwaine out of his thoughts, if the way he flinched was anything to go by. "But I— I'm afraid I have to... accost you one last time."

Arthur was surprised to see that she was blushing when she looked up at Gwaine again, a slow flush that crept up her neck and made the sudden strain of discomfort in her features all the more obvious. Gwaine blinked, taken aback by the abrupt turn in the conversation, but he seemed to know what she was talking about. He folded the girdle and stuffed it into the inside of his tunic—rather carelessly, Arthur thought, since it could just be the thing that would save his life tomorrow.

"Be my guest, then," he replied, seeming to aim for a teasing tone as he spread his hands in invitation. Arthur watched, confused, as Ragnelle took a deep breath to steel her resolve; she seemed to try to smooth the unease from her expression, but didn't quite succeed. She took a step closer, her gaze meandering over Gwaine's shoulder as if she was about to turn her head—

Arthur hastily shrunk back into the shadows before she could catch sight of him, coming to the abrupt decision to stop eavesdropping. He almost tripped over his own feet as he retreated as quickly and quietly as he could, well aware that they would just have to turn their heads to see him, until he finally rounded a bend in the corridor that would block their view. There was no sound from behind, no more murmurs of conversation, but Arthur quickened his pace, not wanting to get caught eavesdropping.

He made his way back through the hallways, silencing his steps until he was well away from the two of them. Half-formed thoughts were flashing through his head, circling around the confusion that stubbornly clung to his mind. He had no idea what to think of the scene he'd seen—Ragnelle had obviously known _something_ about Gwaine's compact with the Green Knight, or she wouldn't have given him the girdle. And while he hadn't asked her how she knew of the danger he was in, Gwaine had clearly felt conflicted and uneasy about accepting her gift.

A thought flickered through Arthur's mind, slowing his steps for a moment. He didn't even know if Ragnelle had told Gwaine the truth, if the girdle would truly protect him from the Green Knight's challenge. Maybe it wouldn't do anything at all if Gwaine finally put it on—but maybe it would break Gwaine's ribs and strangle the breath out of him. Arthur shook his head to dispel that mental image, scoffing inwardly at himself. It might have seemed likely in any other context, but although Arthur hadn't even spoken to Ragnelle during the past three days, he couldn't imagine that she would plot Gwaine's death.

With the vague resolution to ask Merlin if he'd ever heard of magical artifacts that protected those who wore them, Arthur turned his steps in the direction of the guest wing. Maybe Merlin would be able to shed some light on the matter, and if not, they could always traipse through the darkness together. At any rate, it might dispel some of his restless confusion. And if his manservant wasn't there yet, he could as well start packing while Merlin wasn't around to mock him for lowering himself to such servile duties.

 

 

"I know who you are."

The words echoed ominously in the hallway, bouncing back from the ancient stone walls, and for all the deep, steadying breaths Merlin had had to take before he'd spoken, he was proud of the fact that his voice didn't shake at all.

But then again, judging from how slowly Grænn let go of the door handle and turned around, he'd seen that coming all along. It had been a snap decision on Merlin's part to tell him—he'd just been walking down the corridor when he had spotted Grænn striding towards a door ahead of him. And before Merlin had known what possessed him, he'd darted after the man, catching up with him just when he'd reached the door.

Grænn's features were impassive when he finally turned to face Merlin, a polite, mildly surprised mask that didn't give anything away. Merlin forced himself not to take a step back when their eyes met, and he silently berated himself for not having realized his true identity sooner. True, his hair was an untamed, red mess that burned copper even in the cloudy daylight, and his features were different, less aristocratic and refined than the Green Knight's face. But his eyes gave him away, ageless in their strange calm, the fathomless green like a window to a long-lost time.

"And, you know," Merlin added, just for good measure because it irked him to see Grænn just _standing_ there without even a hint of alarm or wariness, "if you want me to help you break free of Morgana's enchantment, beheading my friend tomorrow might not be the wisest thing to do."

Grænn seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he sighed, and stepped towards Merlin, who dug his heels into the dusty stone floor—though the Green Knight was an ancient, powerful forest spirit, Merlin would not budge or cower before him. The man needed his help, after all, and he knew there was no reason to fear him, although the memory of the relentless, invasive curiosity of the forest's primal magic was still fresh in his mind.

"So you have figured me out at last," Grænn said, more quietly than Merlin had expected, after his rather belligerent words. He rested an idle hand on the windowsill next to them, briefly glancing out at his backyard before he fixed the full weight of his gaze on Merlin again. "I never expected to fool you for so long, Emrys. But I suppose you were... distracted."

There was no smile in the Green Knight's voice, no hint of teasing innuendo, but Merlin still felt himself flush as the memory of the previous night worked its way to the front of his mind. He _had_ been preoccupied, but he wouldn't call it a distraction, not when he hadn't felt as sure of himself and as comfortable in his own skin in ages. He still remembered the look on Arthur's face, the stunned wonder when he'd stared at the fire Merlin had made, and it filled him with the same kind of shivery warmth he'd felt last night.

"With all due respect, sir," Merlin replied, his head held high, "that's none of your business."

Grænn let out a long sigh, nodding to himself as if he'd already suspected that he had overstepped some invisible border. "I... apologize," he said, the word clearly unfamiliar on his tongue, but the respectful dip of his head towards Merlin was genuine. "The witch's enchantment wears on me, and I seem to have lost what little manners I had during my lifetime."

Merlin blinked, a little surprised that the man was backing down so quickly—but then again, the Green Knight had never shown him anything but careful deference. Of course he needed Merlin's help, but Merlin had always had the feeling that there was something else there as well, some kind of deep-seated regard that he didn't quite know what to do with. The Green Knight clearly knew of whatever ancient prophecies had been made about Emrys as well.

Curious, Merlin cocked his head, taking the time to properly look at Grænn for what seemed like the first time in days. Now that he was looking for it, he saw clearly that his words had been true—he looked older than when Merlin had first seen him, a little paler, although there were no dark shadows under his eyes to betray his exhaustion. He was staring out at the grounds again, watching the dripping trees and the velvety smooth lawn like the sight of his domain soothed him.

Merlin had spoken up with the urge to confront the man, to get him to admit to whatever scheme he—or, well, Morgana—was plotting behind all of their backs. But he couldn't convince himself to interrogate Grænn now that he looked so tired, their host's easygoing joviality completely stripped away. He couldn't imagine what it must feel like, to have his very spirit bound and enslaved by magic, forced into action like a doll at its puppeteer's whim, but it certainly sounded exhausting.

"What is all this, then?" Merlin asked, pitching his voice low; he would ask his questions, but he wouldn't point accusing fingers or threaten to withhold his help if the Green Knight didn't release Gwaine from his promise. He gestured at the dimly lit corridor and the cloudy day outside. "Why did you bring us here?"

"To protect you," the Green Knight answered readily, tearing his gaze away from his backyard as if with a great effort. "The witch has brought a considerable amount of Mercian soldiers with her, hoping to confront your king as soon as you reach the Green Chapel." He hesitated for a long moment, his eyes holding Merlin's in a silent, thorough assessment, but finally he added, "I wished to give you a reprieve, and to complete the test."

 _Gwaine's_ test, Merlin added silently, unconsciously standing up a bit straighter. Ragnelle's words came back to him—she was part of this, of what had seemed like a harmless game at first, but what Merlin knew was part of the beheading challenge. Suddenly he found his mind helplessly stuck on Gwaine, remembering how he'd tried to convince his friend to accept his help, although he hadn't been all that surprised when Gwaine had declined.

But now—Merlin stared at the Green Knight, swallowing hard as his heart fluttered uneasily in his chest. No one would have to know if he tried to convince him to release Gwaine from his promise now. He had everything he needed to bargain with the man—although he still didn't know how to go about breaking Morgana's enchantment, he could promise to do as much, if only the Green Knight let Gwaine live, if only Merlin would never have to hear the sickening thump of a head hitting the ground again—

 _No_ , he thought to himself, firmly, and clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Gwaine's decision had been clear, as firm as it could have been in the face of what awaited him, and Merlin had to accept that. And if Gwaine ever found out that Merlin had freed him from the bargain— Merlin swallowed hard, easily able to imagine the disappointed anger in his friend's eyes. He would not be as accepting of that betrayal as he had been of Merlin's magic. This, at least, was not _his_ business.

He took a deep breath, and another, trying to settle the nausea that squirmed in his stomach. Struggling to push away the thought of his friend's trial, he passed an aimless look around the deserted hallway, acutely aware that the Green Knight was still watching him, and finally settled for asking, "Do you think he will pass your test?"

Grænn tilted his head, a thoughtful, strangely knowing look passing over his features, like he knew exactly what Merlin had just been thinking about. "Maybe," he replied, cryptically, but the brief glint in his eyes gave him away, and Merlin knew that he secretly hoped Gwaine would. "If nothing else, I have enjoyed bargaining with him."

"I'll bet you did," Merlin muttered before he could stop himself, remembering both the kiss in the dining hall and the one from the night before.

But the Green Knight didn't seem offended; his lips quirked in a brief wry smile before his expression grew serious again. "He has certainly done well these past two days," he said. It could just have been Merlin's imagination, but the thought of Gwaine seemed to revive something in his face, making him look younger and not as tired as he had before. "His spirit is honest and strong."

"And loyal," Merlin said softly, his mind drawn back to their near-argument in the backyard, the righteous anger that had hardened Gwaine's features on his behalf. He didn't quite know what drew the next words out of him, but somehow it seemed _right_ to tell the Green Knight, if only to assure him once more than his opinion of Gwaine couldn't be more accurate. "I told him about my magic."

For all his calmness, the Green Knight clearly hadn't expected that. He paused visibly, going completely still as he absorbed that piece of information, his eyes widening in astonishment. Merlin felt like they saw through him, boring deeply into his own, but he couldn't avert his gaze, couldn't look away from the centuries-old, curious scrutiny that stared back at him. He squirmed a little, barely resisting the urge to fidget when the Green Knight's eyes flickered back and forth between his own as if to catch one of them in the act of lying.

"Why?" he asked at last, when scrutinizing Merlin's features didn't seem to give him the answer he was seeking, but carried on before Merlin could speak. "I told your king that he needs to be honest with himself, and he finally _is_ , but now..." Tilting his head with a frown, the Green Knight trailed off for a moment, confusion evident on his features. "It is Gwaine's honesty that is put to the test here, not yours."

Blinking slowly, Merlin tried to catch up. It was true, the Green Knight _had_ told Arthur that he had to be honest with himself when Arthur had tried to challenge him at the Beltane feast. He hadn't specified exactly what it was that the prince needed to face, but for some reason Merlin found himself thinking of what the Green Knight had said about distractions earlier. Maybe he'd known how twisted and wrong things had gone between them when Merlin had revealed his magic to Arthur, and now that Arthur had come such a long way towards understanding, it was only logical that the Green Knight knew they were closer than they'd ever been before.

He shook his head to dispel the thought, forcing himself to meet Grænn's gaze although a blush was trying to work its way into his cheeks. The thought of their host knowing about _that_ was just a bit too unsettling. Still, Merlin squared his shoulders, and said, perhaps a bit more belligerently than he'd wanted to, "That doesn't mean I can't be honest as well."

"Well said, Emrys," the Green Knight answered with a courteous little bow. Just like that, the confusion was dispelled, and the smile that lit up his features made him look almost boyish. There was pride in his voice, like Merlin had just passed a test of his own. "The unity that this adventure has wrought among Camelot's finest fighters is remarkable." He paused, and his smile turned just a little wicked around the edges. "I know that the witch would not be pleased."

Merlin just stared at him for a moment, a bit taken aback by the sudden turn in the conversation. Little by little, the excitement faded from Grænn's expression, like he had just realized who he was talking about. His gaze drifted towards the window once more, as though he was trying to find comfort in the familiar sight of his lands, but judging from the muscle that Merlin saw twitching in his jaw, it wasn't working.

"My friends the druids have more sympathy for her than I ever did," he murmured, more to himself than to Merlin. The words sounded oddly faded and worn, like he had turned them over and over in his head too many times to count. "They would try to reason with her, if she weren't so far gone."

"Gone?" Merlin repeated, uneasiness stirring at the back of his mind. Iseldir had told him nearly the same thing two days ago—that what was left of Morgana's mind was bent towards revenge—but he still felt helpless about it. He wondered if this would be a good time to tell the Green Knight that the oh-so-powerful Emrys had no idea how to get all of them out of this mess alive, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

"Mad with grief," the Green Knight clarified, his eyes flat and emotionless when he looked at Merlin again, watching him impassively for any signs of pity. "Lost in her power." His features twisted for the briefest of moments, a cold, unearthing fury coiled to spring behind a thin veneer. "Lost in a kind of magic she only barely controls."

Swallowing, Merlin nodded, well aware that he was talking about his own magic now—the magic that had made him immortal all those centuries ago, and that was now harnessed to sow the seeds of conflict between two kingdoms. He had no idea if the Green Knight would even care if Camelot and Mercia went to war because of all this—somehow, he couldn't imagine that a long-dead forest spirit was all that bothered by the affairs of mortals that happened to reside in his lands.

But he did know that the Green Knight hated being used like this, and that he harbored no ill will towards him or Arthur—he respected them, even, he had called Arthur a king. If he knew about Emrys, Merlin realized, he might also know about his and Arthur's shared destiny.

"Why does she even want Arthur dead?" Merlin wondered aloud, although he at least thought that he knew that already. Arthur was Uther's heir, the one child that he had acknowledged as his own, and that might be enough to kindle Morgana's hatred, unleashed as it had been by her sister's death.

"The only one she truly wants to see fall is Uther Pendragon," the Green Knight informed him, his tone clipped and final. "I do not think she cares that her plan will kill his son as well."

Merlin exhaled slowly, wiping suddenly sweaty hands on his trousers. Protecting Arthur was so ingrained in his blood that he hadn't had to think about it like this in a long while. It wasn't anything he had to plan or contemplate—it just _was_ , like a sixth sense at the back of his mind that came to roaring, protective life whenever Arthur was in danger. Pure instinct had saved his prince too many times to count, a hand flung out as the right spell flew to the front of his mind as if the magic itself was eager to come to Arthur's aid.

But this wasn't just a group of bandits that ambushed them on a hunt, barely a day's ride from Camelot's citadel. They were in Mercia, in the domain of a magical entity that was under Morgana's control, even though the Green Knight had been using what little leeway the spell left him to protect them all. Patrols of enemy soldiers were scattered throughout the woods, ready to go wherever Morgana guided them in search of Camelot's crown prince. And to top it off, they were dressed for _hunting_ , not battle, their leather jackets and sturdy trousers a poor defense against sharp steel.

With a start, Merlin suddenly realized that the Green Knight stepped towards him, coming to stand so close that Merlin would only have had to reach out a hand to touch him. Something like regret flickered across his features when their gazes met, like he hadn't wanted to discourage Merlin with his words. Merlin blinked to steady himself, unprepared as he had been for the sudden close proximity to the timeless wells of his eyes, and realized for the first time that they were the same height.

The Green Knight lifted an ungloved hand, slowly, like he wanted to avoid startling Merlin, and put it on his shoulder, grounding him with the weight. Merlin took a deep, startled breath when an echo of what he'd felt beyond the mansion's walls ripped through him at the contact, the alluring call of the forest's wilderness dancing through his mind like a flash of lightning. He felt the weight of the Green Knight's hand, and the pull of timeless power just beneath, an eternal, thundering flow of magic just beneath his skin.

"This is a lot to guard against, Emrys," the Green Knight said, his voice quiet but vehement. "Be careful," he warned, and Merlin shuddered helplessly when his shoulder was squeezed in what was probably meant as a reassuring gesture. "I would not see you slain in an attempt to help me. Your survival is infinitely more precious than mine. My life was spent centuries ago, but your life is destined to guarding your kingdom."

Merlin blinked, startled out of the spiral of dizziness that had caught hold of his mind. At once, the Green Knight let him go, a contrite expression flickering across his face as though he had only just realized what his touch did to Merlin. He took a slow step back, seeming to make an effort to look unthreatening, but Merlin wasn't afraid, just a trifle confused as he shook his head to dispel the swirling fog that had settled in his head. Now that the Green Knight's touch was gone, he could feel the ivy leaf he had tucked back into his shirt that morning, a touch of grounding coolness against his skin.

It was one thing to nearly get lost in the wild, undulating call of the Green Knight's magic, but Merlin found his thoughts latching on to something else. "It's not—," he started, his voice hoarse and puzzled, and broke off when he realized he didn't quite know what to ask to make sense of the man's words.

"It's Arthur's kingdom," the Green Knight said simply, stepping further back, out of Merlin's personal space, and Merlin knew that he would tolerate no arguing on this. The barest hint of a smile lit up his features, like he had caught on to Merlin's thoughts within a heartbeat. "And that means it is yours as well."

Of all the things he'd learned, it was that that stayed with Merlin well into the evening, sticking to his tumultuous thoughts like a stubborn burr. It startled him how right it felt, how it settled comfortably into a hidden hollow space in his mind, just like Kilgharrah's talk of the prophecy had three years ago. The Green Knight's words had been anchored in meaning, but they felt unlike anything Merlin had ever felt before. They did not bear the guilty pull of secrets, but slid seamlessly into the edges of his mind, settling there like a weight he had earned.


	9. The Green Chapel

_He waits where his forest is darkest, sheltered safely by his Chapel's ruined walls._

 _Waiting is all there is to do, now that the test is almost over; but although he had thought himself patient before, he cannot shake the restlessness that has curled in his foreign bones. Maybe it was part of the witch's spell, he thinks sometimes—but then again, he was human once, and what he feels now is not unlike the rush of shivery anticipation before a battle._

 _Little twinges go through him when booted feet stomp down on freshly grown grass and campfires scorch the ground. Flocks of birds have fled from the unfamiliar sound of clinking chainmail and armor, coming to him with anxious trills at the first gray light of dawn. He cannot calm them; he can only promise them that it will all be over soon._

 _Predictably, his ravens were outraged when the Mercian soldiers first breached the eastern edge of his forest. Without his stern command, his hawks would have pecked their eyes out and chased them home terrified and bleeding, and it was all he could do to stop his hounds from sniffing out the intruders, licking their gleaming teeth in anticipation of tearing into human flesh._

 _But the witch ordered him to grant the patrols safe passage, and so he lets them trespass on his lands, doing nothing to stop them as they lay siege to his heart._

 _They are close, he knows—this morning, their camp is barely ten furlongs from his Chapel. But Emrys is closer._

 _Sometimes he thinks that it may have been rash of him to give the boy the means to set him free, for Emrys had not seemed to know what to do with the ivy leaf that Iseldir had passed on to him. The ravens thought him foolish, but he used the little gaps and tears in the witch's spell as well as he could. Without the witch's knowledge, he showed Emrys his forest's power and gave him the means to channel it, and now he has to wait for him to add up the pieces to form a complete picture._

 _The witch is close, too, her still-sleeping presence a charred, twisted something at the edge of his consciousness. He remembers well that the druids asked him to spare her, with an earnestness that bordered on pleading. But even though pity still pulls on him, it has long since stopped appeasing the slow, creeping rage that fills him, mounting day after day, like icy water bubbling up from the depths of a long since dried well._

 _As dawn claims the sky with gentle rosy gold, the Mercians will continue onwards, fanning out around the heart of his forest to trap the prey they were promised. He is not afraid; he left fear behind with his mortal shell centuries ago. But he knows that his is not the only destiny at stake here, and he does not want to think of the roaring, pained cry that will rise from the lands if the once and future king's blood ever stains his forest's ground._

 _The gray light of morning coats his home, and even the birds are silent now, listening to the rhythmic scrape of the whetstone on his axe as if they know whose blood will stain the blade before long. Tentative rays of sunlight reach for him, pouring down his Chapel's ruined walls. He listens to the endless song of rustling leaves and gently whispering grass that is his constant companion, sharpening his weapon with methodical ease, and waits._

 _His challenger is coming, and the witch is waking. Far too close for his liking, the soldiers yawn and stretch and prepare for another day of combing through the forest in search of Camelot's warriors. Sunlight glints on his axe, his faithful blade sharpened to a deadly bite, and he knows that he can keep at least his promise to the birds. One way or another, it will end today._

 

  


 

The next day dawned bright and clear, the last of the clouds scattering before the thin but insistent glow of the morning sun. Thick fog rose from the sprawling wilderness of the forest, wafting gently through Grænn's backyard as if it wanted to lay claim to the mansion itself. Unseen woodland creatures rustled in the undergrowth, and birds sang in the distance, chirping their song into the stillness of the morning air.

Gwaine couldn't help but look over his shoulder when they entered the forest once more, although Gryngolet made good use of his rider's distraction and pranced straight through a series of puddles. The mansion gradually disappeared from view through the thickening trees and billowing mist. He could see the windows of the dining hall, illuminated by the candles that Grænn's servants had lit when they'd eaten their breakfast.

There was no light behind any of the other windows, and the large archway of the main entrance lay in shadow. Gwaine had the distinct feeling that Grænn was still standing there, watching them ride away into the forest after he'd bidden them farewell.

Branches cracked ahead when Arthur steered Llamrei around a cluster of bushes, and Gwaine reluctantly turned around in the saddle again. Arthur was leading them in the vague direction of the rising sun; Grænn had told them to head eastwards in their search of the Green Chapel, and had refused to say anything more, although the prince had been noticeably disgruntled with the poor directions their host had given them. Gwaine and Merlin rode behind him, followed by Percival and Elyan, who each led one of the packhorses. Leon and Lancelot trailed behind, and Gwaine knew they were carefully guarding the back of their group.

He shifted to get more comfortable in the saddle. Riding through the forest again felt like plunging back into a long-forgotten dream—but at least the trees stood stock-still this time, and the bushes didn't scurry out of their way, and the trail they were following hadn't changed directions yet. It was like the forest trusted them to find their own way now—or maybe it just didn't want to lead them to its heart at the Green Chapel.

Gwaine shoved that thought away before it could go any further, and rubbed a tired hand over his face. Yesterday's headache was still there, a dull pounding behind his eyes that did nothing to alleviate the exhaustion he felt pulling at his limbs after yet another night of too little sleep. In retrospect, he didn't know if he had even slept at all. He'd tossed and turned for the longest time, watched the shadows crawl across the floor of his guest room, and only started drifting fitfully in and out of consciousness when the first light of dawn had turned the sky a rosier shade of midnight blue.

There was no point in denying it even to himself, and last night, with wan moonlight trickling in through the window, the icy fear that had gripped him hadn't seemed all that laughable or cowardly. For the longest time, he'd sat upright in bed with the sheets pooling around his waist, and tried to imagine what the next day would bring. He steered his thoughts towards the Green Knight, he thought of the huge axe that he had wielded himself once, and he knew that no matter how carefully worded the man's challenge had been, there was no way Gwaine could fool himself into thinking he might _not_ be felled by a single blow from that blade.

But there had been nothing, no gruesome images dredged up from the depths of his subconscious. Cold sweat had trickled down his back in tiny drops, but Gwaine hadn't been able to imagine his own death. His mind had spent such a long time avoiding the matter that it refused to be bent towards it now, and all he came up with was the memory of the Green Knight's unshakeable calm acceptance when Gwaine had beheaded him weeks ago. It made an unexpected bitterness well up in him, because Gwaine knew very well that _he_ wouldn't be as serene when he finally had to face down the sharpened glint of that blade. But to his own surprise, the thought must have given some comfort to the cold, desolate terror that squirmed in the back of his mind, because it had mostly run its course when he'd finally gotten up in the morning. Now, he just felt numb.

Beneath his tunic burned the mark of his weakness, the girdle's silky green fabric like a brand against his skin.

Somehow, Gwaine almost suspected that it was the girdle that had kept him awake the night before, that he would have slept soundly in what might very well have been the last night of his life if it hadn't been for the silver embroidery glinting innocently in the moonlight. It had tempted him more strongly than the call of a thousand sirens, catching and holding his restless gaze whenever he looked at his nightstand. And after a while, when his mind had once more spiraled through the inevitability of what awaited him the next day, the thought of putting it on had seemed more and more alluring.

He still had no idea how Ragnelle had known of his predicament, and he was well aware that she'd only wanted to help, but a small part of him almost hated her for giving him the girdle. It had felt so strangely _right_ to turn down Merlin's offer of help, because even through the dread that had gripped him the night before, Gwaine had known instinctively that he was on his own with this. But the green girdle had been thrust upon him when his defenses had weakened considerably, presenting him with a way out where he hadn't ever expected to find one.

And now the sleepless night had worn down his resistance enough that he had put it on in the morning, winding it around his stomach beneath his tunic. The fabric didn't seem to absorb his body heat—it still felt silky and cool, but that didn't appease the prickling heat of shame that burned just beneath Gwaine's skin. Rationally, he knew that the Green Knight would have no way of finding out he'd been fooled. But then again, he _was_ a magical forest spirit after all, and maybe he would sense the girdle's presence, protecting the man who had once accepted his challenge with bold fearlessness, the same man who now resorted to magic to break his word.

Gwaine's stomach clenched at the thought, and he shook his head to chase it away. He felt Merlin's concerned gaze on him, but even though he knew he looked pale and nauseous, he couldn't bring himself to reassure his friend right now. It already took all of his willpower to ignore the itching of his skin under the green silk, like his body was trying to make him do the right thing.

But doing the right thing would cost him his head. The urge to laugh bubbled up in his throat for a moment, and he suppressed it with some difficulty, well aware that a number of gazes were resting on his back as well. Neither Percival nor Elyan had asked anyone why they were headed for the Green Chapel instead of Camelot, and Gwaine suspected that Arthur had taken them aside earlier and filled them in on what had happened while their group had been split up. The two of them hadn't said anything to him about the challenge—Arthur had most likely warned them not to pester him with useless concerns and reassurances on the last day of his life.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tightening his hold on Gryngolet's reins. The stallion was rather calm today, as if he knew that his master was struggling with himself not to jump off his back, duck behind the cover of a tree, and rip the band of silk from his waist. A part of him wanted to take it off and never see it again, but the larger part of his mind felt too numb to even care that he was breaking his word. He had no idea how to explain to Arthur why he wanted to stop and retreat into the undergrowth anyway. The prince would probably think he needed a moment to compose himself, he'd assume he was _afraid_ , and the mere thought of Arthur's pity made Gwaine's very skin prickle with sickening discomfort.

A strange, somber mood accompanied them on their way deeper into the forest, the mist scattering before them as the sun rose higher in the sky, creating a strange, sublime twilight beneath the leaves. The terrain got more mountainous, stony slopes and hills breaking up the close formation of the trees—they stood further and further apart amidst clusters of thorny bushes. At the front of their group, Arthur called out a short command to slow their pace as the path got more and more littered with rocks. Gwaine slowed Gryngolet with an absent tug on the reins—he didn't want him to trip on the stony ground.

Although none of them had any idea how far they would have to ride to find the Green Chapel, they seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement not to rest until they reached their destination. Gwaine knew that the others were probably getting hungry again by now, but Arthur didn't call for them to stop, and nobody complained. Grænn had pressed them to take a bag full of field rations, flat out ignoring Arthur's attempts to pay for it, but although the bag had smelled enticingly of smoked meat and dried fruit, Gwaine wasn't sure if he could have choked anything down even if they had stopped to rest. At some point his stomach had clenched up completely as though protesting the slight pressure from the girdle's green silk.

As far as he could tell, Grænn hadn't suspected anything last night. It had been the last day of their strange little game, and Gwaine had dutifully delivered Ragnelle's kiss to him, although he hadn't been able to enjoy it much. He'd thought of the girdle, lying on his nightstand in his room upstairs, and it had been a snap decision not to mention it to his host. If he had, then maybe Grænn would have demanded him to share that as well. And even then, with his mind still reeling from what Ragnelle had told him about the girdle, his sense of self-preservation had won.

He shook his head to dispel the thought and darted a glance to his right, just in time to see Merlin look away guiltily, like he'd been watching Gwaine for quite some time now. He looked tense and worried, but at least composed—not like Gwaine felt inside, like an earthquake had shaken the very foundation of himself and left everything numb with tumbling disarray.

"Any idea how much further it is?" Elyan ventured to no one in particular, mercifully cutting short the train of thought that had been running through Gwaine's head. He sounded almost afraid to break the silence.

"Grænn said to head eastwards," Arthur replied from the front, obviously still disgruntled at the insufficient directions they'd been given. "Let's just hope we—"

Gwaine never found out what Arthur hoped for, because he broke off and pulled Llamrei to an abrupt stop. She tossed her head in displeasure at the sudden sting of the bit, and Gwaine barely managed to keep Gryngolet from colliding with her backside. Next to him, Merlin swayed dangerously in his saddle when his horse jerked to a stop; he let go of the reins, flailing to regain his balance, and Gwaine reached over to steady him with a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, a snappy remark already on his tongue, but it died in his throat as he realized why Arthur had stopped. At first he just saw a patch of brown fur, blending in with the slope they'd been riding up, but then he realized it was a doe, standing calm and unafraid in the middle of their path as if it had been waiting for them.

Sharp intakes of breath from behind him told him that the others had seen it as well. For a long, silent moment, the doe just looked at them, big, dark eyes seeming to glance at each of them in turn as if to make sure that their group was complete.

Then the doe started trotting up the hill, well away from the path they had been following. She seemed to test each patch of ground before setting down her hooves, and Gwaine suspected that the hill had been turned mostly to marshland by the rain. The animal stopped to turn to them again, its ears twitching slightly as it listened to the sounds of the forest around them. Long lashes framed the dark eyes, intelligent and knowing, and the strange agelessness in the doe's gaze stirred at something in Gwaine's memory.

" _Down there comes a fallow doe, as great with young as she might go_ ," Merlin murmured under his breath, and Gwaine flinched slightly, startled by the sudden sound of his voice. A slow realization started to unfurl in Merlin's gaze when the doe's eyes met his, but then Arthur turned to stare at him, and he blinked, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "I think we should follow her," he said, louder this time, conviction ringing in his tone as he held Arthur's gaze, trying to pass along some silent message.

"Of all the bizarre, unexpected, magical—," Arthur muttered under his breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His nod looked weary, like he had seen quite enough of the forest's supernatural occupants on their journey. But there was no doubt in his expression as he locked eyes with Merlin again, and his hand was steady and firm when he motioned for them to dismount.

"We'll leave the horses here," he declared, glancing up at the muddy grass that peeked out from between outcroppings of rock. The hill did indeed look like it would slide down in an avalanche of dirt under the combined weight of all of their horses. Gwaine dismounted, more clumsily than usual, but the muscles in his legs protested the sudden movement, locked tight with anxiety as they had been for the past hour.

The doe waited patiently as they tied their horses' reins to each other's saddles, lining them up in an odd-looking queue behind Llamrei, who got her reins loosely loped around a tree branch by her master. For just a moment, Gwaine saw apprehension flicker across Arthur's features as he smoothed a hand down his mare's nose, like he would rather have taken the horses with them to the Chapel. But then he straightened up and started walking after the doe, Merlin following close behind.

It was a silent, though no less tense trek up the hill, following the doe's bobbing tail. At least she slowed down whenever her human entourage had to pick their way around a patch of grass that looked too swampy to carry their weight. Soon Merlin was panting with exertion next to Gwaine, and he could hear Leon and Percival curse under their breath whenever their feet slipped in the mud. In a way, Gwaine welcomed the sweat that beaded on his neck—having to be careful where he put his feet gave his mind something to latch on to.

The trees thickened again as the ground evened out slowly, and soon they were walking on a carpet of springy grass and dark green moss once more. Quietude stretched before them, silence of a different kind than the strained hush they had ridden through earlier. Pressing a hand to the stitch in his side, Merlin quickened his steps to get closer to Arthur, his gaze darting over the trees. Maybe he was picking up on some strange magical undercurrent in the air, but even Gwaine felt his senses sharpen with watchfulness. It felt like they had entered a place where no man had walked in centuries.

There was no visible path in front of them, but the doe still seemed to know where to lead them. Unconsciously, Gwaine found himself hanging back a little to close their left flank, exchanging a short glance with Leon when they came to walk next to each other. The other knight looked tense as well, but none of them spoke as they advanced further through the woods, the rustle of grass the only sound breaking the silence.

Suddenly, the doe stopped walking and turned around to look at them again. Her fur gleamed golden in the greenish light that filtered in through the trees, and she stood completely still for a moment as she seemed to try to convey some silent message to them. Then she suddenly darted away, veering off her chosen path to jump through a gap between two large oaks. Merlin and Arthur both started forward as though their first instinct was to follow, but Gwaine only saw a flash of brown fur through the trees before the doe was gone, the crackles and rustles of the undergrowth getting further and further away.

They all exchanged nervous looks—venturing even deeper into the heart of the woods without guidance would have been daunting even if they hadn't known the forest was magical. But by some unspoken agreement, they all started walking again, trying to head in the general direction that the doe had led them in. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw that Leon had his hand on his dagger, and Lancelot was purposefully falling back to guard the rear end of their group.

Little by little, the forest grew thinner, more and more sunlight filtering through the damp leaves. Although there was no movement between the rain-darkened tree trunks, Gwaine felt his apprehension grow, and the sudden break in the treeline took him by surprise. Abruptly, the forest opened up to a sheltered glade, long stalks of grass swaying gently as if in invitation, although not even a slight breeze stirred the air. Moss-covered rock formations littered the clearing, shimmering wetly in the sunlight.

Arthur had stopped abruptly, surveying their surroundings with no small amount of distrust. He exchanged a lingering look with Merlin, but Merlin didn't seem to know what to do now either. Something on the far side of the clearing caught Arthur's attention, and he ventured closer, the others trailing behind, and that was when Gwaine heard it too.

A noise pierced the silence, growing progressively louder as they crossed the glade with slow, careful steps. It was oddly familiar to Gwaine, a rhythmic, ringing scrape that was all the louder for the stillness in the air, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the sound of an axe's blade being sharpened.

His heart leaped into his throat and stayed there, as if it knew that that sound might very well mean its end. He suddenly found it hard to breathe, well aware of the shocked, unsettled gazes on his back, since the others must have recognized the sound for what it was as well. But he did his best not to let any emotion show on his face, and forced his suddenly numb legs to follow Arthur through the high grass.

The glade narrowed into a gentle slope, the trees drawing back further to make room for a looming silhouette, and as they came closer, Gwaine realized that they had at last found the Green Chapel. It must have been quite a magnificent little citadel once upon a time, but now it was in ruins of gray, weather-beaten stone. A high, crumbling arch led the way into the inside, and Gwaine caught sight of grass growing between the cracks in the tiles that must have been polished to gleam a long time ago.

And of course, the battered walls were covered in ivy. Each dark green leaf was plump and gleaming with life from the rain—the leaves rustled gently as if in greeting, and Gwaine almost found himself smiling. The sight didn't surprise him. It just reminded him of the noblemen's homes, claimed by the Green Knight's magic as their lives had been claimed by his axe.

The silence seemed to be centered here, an ominous, far-reaching quietude that made every breath, every creak of leather from their boots and vests sound loud. Leon had inched away from their group to look around the corner of the Chapel, but he didn't find anything lying in wait for them there, because he returned to Arthur's side after a moment. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw Merlin shiver as he looked up at the glassless curve of a high, narrow window. He wondered if his friend heard anything, if there was some undefinable magical crackle in the air that only Merlin could feel.

When the Green Knight stepped out of the Chapel, Gwaine almost didn't recognize him at first—the color of his clothes blended in with the ivy and the grass. But then the sight of him went through Gwaine like a shock of cold water, and he could only stand there and stare as his challenger stepped down from the archway to meet them.

"You came," the Green Knight said, quietly, as though he didn't want to disturb the silence of his forest. His eyes were fixed steadily on Gwaine, and he was oddly reminded of the Beltane fires, of how the man had seemed to focus on him then, too, even before Gwaine had challenged him, like he'd seen it coming.

Gwaine didn't reply. He tried to compose himself, to get a hold of the fragmented thoughts that flashed through his mind, but if he tried to speak, his voice would come out rough—hoarse with disuse, he knew, but the Green Knight might think him afraid. His skin itched at the mere thought, and he found himself suddenly reminded of the girdle, a steady, slight weight of fabric against his stomach.

"Welcome to my abode," the Green Knight went on, unperturbed by Gwaine's silence. This time, he encompassed the others with his gaze as well, and his eyes seemed to linger on Merlin a moment longer, communicating some silent message. He inclined his head at him, and then at Arthur as well, and Arthur nodded back, his features locked in a polite mask that couldn't quite disguise the tightness underneath.

For the first time, Gwaine noticed that the Green Knight looked different. His clothes were the same, but they seemed slightly more worn and scuffed—his hair was in tousled disarray, the twines of ivy shimmering between black strands, and something about his features seemed sharper, more feral. His face had lost its cultivated aristocratic quality, and Gwaine thought that he finally looked like what he was—a spirit of a primal magic that was older than life itself, ancient and untamed at the center of his power.

"You and I have business to attend to, Sir Gwaine," the Green Knight suddenly spoke up again, startling Gwaine out of his thoughts. The green eyes regarded him with grave attention, his gaze almost a physical weight. "I was not sure if you would come, but I am glad that you did."

"What, did you think I was too much of a coward to come?" Gwaine said, the indignant words tumbling from his mouth before he could think better of them. He was grateful that his voice didn't shake, that it didn't betray the jittery ball of snakes that his insides seemed to have turned into. But the twinge of irritation helped him look the man in the eye without flinching, and so he was almost grateful for it.

The seriousness in the Green Knight's face shattered into a smile. The playful glint in his eyes made him look more like himself, more like the man that Gwaine had thoughtlessly offered a dance to on Beltane eve. "Of course I assumed no such thing," he replied, mock offense lighting his tone. "After your magnificent stroke felled me weeks ago, I never would have thought you afraid."

 _But I am now_ , Gwaine thought, almost hysterically, but he managed to keep his mouth shut this time—the Green Knight didn't have to know that, and neither did the others. Their gazes were like hot brands on his skin, and he was nearly sure that none of them would have thought less of him if he'd fallen to his knees and pleaded for his life. But in spite of the frantic pounding of his heart, something kept him upright—the same thing that had made him decline Merlin's offer of help.

With an effort that felt like it would exhaust him, Gwaine tore his gaze away from where the Green Knight was resting a hand on his belt, near the ivy-covered handle of his axe. He cleared his throat, gesturing at the weapon as if he hadn't heard it being sharpened for his head just a minute ago, and said, with more bravado than he felt, "Shall we get on with it, then?"

Behind him, Merlin let out a quiet, dismayed gasp that settled uncomfortably behind Gwaine's ribs. It was hard to quell the sudden urge to turn around and reassure him, and Gwaine had to curl his hands into fists to keep himself still. He knew what he would find in Merlin's gaze—fear, concern, an overwhelming plea to take back what he had just said—and he wasn't sure if he could stand as firm and unafraid as he wanted to if he met his friend's eyes.

"Certainly," the Green Knight said after a short pause. His gaze swept over their group, resting on each of them in an unspoken command to stay back, a warning that this was between him and Gwaine only. For a split-second, Gwaine thought he saw something like an apology flicker through his eyes as he looked at Merlin, but it was gone again in an instant.

The ivy rustled when he drew his axe, but he did not lunge at Gwaine right away—he propped it up on the ground and rested his hands on the handle, much as he had done so many months ago at the feast. He just looked at Gwaine for a long moment, his thoughtfully narrowed eyes traveling up and down his body as though he was seizing up his opponent. His gaze was almost like a physical touch, and although it didn't silence the sickening squirming in his gut, it finally prompted Gwaine to step forward, out of the half-circle their group had formed around the entrance of the Chapel.

"At Beltane," the Green Knight began, his words slow and measured as he chose each of them carefully, "you gifted me with one single stroke that beheaded me. Today, I seek to return the favor, as dictated by the compact we agreed on. Do you remember?"

A silence deeper than the one before fell over the clearing like a veil. Even the trees seemed to be listening now, hushing their rustling leaves in anticipation, and in the quietude, Gwaine heard his own erratic heartbeat pound in his ears. This was probably his last chance to back out—he could just say that he'd been so drunk that night that he couldn't remember agreeing to anything. The others might even back him up on that, since they all knew of his drinking habits. There was caution in the Green Knight's eyes, a certain kind of alertness in the way he held himself, like he almost expected Gwaine to make up some excuse.

"Of course I remember," Gwaine heard himself say, his mouth moving on its own accord. He felt sick, his stomach roiling with nausea, but his voice was steady, and for that, he was grateful. "One blow in exchange for another, like you said."

Someone sighed behind him, an unsteady outrush of air, like they had been hoping he would withdraw, but hadn't really expected him to. Cold sweat prickled on the back of his neck, but Gwaine still felt inexplicably steadier, like the simple refusal to take the way out had been enough to bolster his spirits. His hands didn't feel quite as clammy, his breathing not as rattling and unsteady as before, and he straightened up under the weight of the others' eyes on him, smoothing his features into an impassive mask.

"Very well," the Green Knight replied quietly. He lifted his axe with both hands, slowly adjusting his hold and testing the grip of his hands to make sure they wouldn't slip. For a second, Gwaine thought he looked contrite, like he was already regretting this before he'd even struck him down. "Then we shall begin."

The blade gleamed in the sunlight, freshly sharpened and polished, and this time there was no trace of rust marring the metal. Gwaine's gaze was helplessly drawn to the silver arc of light as the Green Knight swung it once with deliberate slowness, keeping well clear of Gwaine's personal space, getting used to the weight of his weapon. The blade itself seemed a testament to times long past—it had killed the vassals, but before that, it had fought a losing battle against an immortal army. And now it would taste his blood.

Gravel crunched under the Green Knight's boots as he broadened his stance, breaking the thick, tense silence that had descended on the clearing like a veil. In an unoccupied corner of his mind, Gwaine noticed for the first time that they were roughly the same height. His challenger would have to swing the blade upwards to get at Gwaine's neck, and he thought almost hysterically that it would be far easier for the Green Knight to strike him down if Gwaine knelt before him.

His heartbeat was roaring in his ears as though it knew what lay in store for him, but even if Gwaine had had the presence of mind to sink down onto the ground, he knew that his legs would have been far too weak anyway. He felt cold all over, his fingers so numb that he couldn't have moved them to his defense even if he'd tried.

With his axe poised to strike, the Green Knight paused for a long moment. Green eyes met his, and for a moment he almost smiled, and he said, as if he had heard Gwaine's jumbled thoughts, "A man like you should never have to kneel before anybody."

The sunlit gleam of the blade turned to a blur of brightness, and although he knew how fast it really happened, Gwaine saw it coming as if in slow motion. He saw the Green Knight's knuckles turn white with the strain as he hurled the whole weight of his formidable weapon forward, aiming for the most vulnerable point on Gwaine's body, saw the grimace of concentration that his features had twisted into—and behind him, someone gasped, or maybe it had been Gwaine himself, his strength betraying him in this last moment, although he had sworn to himself that the weight of his terror would not bring him down.

He couldn't have helped his flinch even if he'd tried. His feet moved on their own accord, pitching his weight back in a startled jerk, and for a moment he thought he would fall, the sunlit canopy of leaves above suddenly filling his vision. But it was instinct that saved him and that steadied his weight, the terrible, cursed sense of self-preservation that had kicked in at the last possible second.

Inches from his neck, the axe cut through nothingness with a high whistle of air. The Green Knight's eyes widened in surprise from behind the tangle of his black hair, and the tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief as he fought to steady the hurtling weight of his weapon. He stumbled forward with the momentum, but didn't fall, and after a moment he managed to stop the blade's uncontrolled descent.

Despite the faint tremor that ran up and down his back, Gwaine stood stock still when the Green Knight turned around to face him. His stomach felt like a knotted fist of roiling nausea despite—or maybe because of—the girdle that was still wound around his middle. The unforgiving clarity of what he had just done pierced the fog in his mind, and for a moment, he fought the wild urge to apologize, to swear that he wouldn't move even an inch if only the Green Knight would give him another chance to keep his word.

There was no anger in the Green Knight's eyes, no scorn or disappointment. He simply stared at him, head cocked to the side, and his voice was silkily devoid of emotion when he said, "Do you flinch from my blade, Sir Gwaine? Like the coward that I know you're not?"

The words cut through him almost as though the axe had found its mark after all. Behind him, the others were tense and silent, but even the sound of Merlin's unsteady breathing fell away in the rush of irritation that infused Gwaine's veins. The Green Knight hadn't meant to insult him, he was probably just trying to get a rise out of him—but the anger helped him focus. It tore down the veil of numbing terror and shame, and for a moment he found himself almost grateful.

"I flinched once, sir," Gwaine said, forcing himself to keep his head held high and look the Green Knight in the eye. "But now I will stand firm."

He didn't know where the words came from, or why his voice was still so steady, but it felt good to hear himself speak with such calm assurance in the face of certain death. There was a short, tense pause, the others' gazes prickling uncomfortably on Gwaine's neck like feather-light touches.

They were watching him, but at least none of them had interrupted yet, although he could almost picture the way Merlin was probably holding himself back by sheer strength of will. Leon would be torn between his sense of honor and his loyalty to Gwaine, and Percival and Elyan would most likely wear matching expressions of horrified confusion, at an utter loss as to why their friend was just standing there, preparing himself for another blow. Among them, Arthur was perhaps the only one who was watching the Green Knight instead of Gwaine, his eyes flat and hard as he traced each of the man's movements, waiting for the slightest slip-up to interfere.

The Green Knight gave him a curt nod, accepting Gwaine's words. There was a calculating gleam in his eyes as he stepped back again, bending down a little to steady his stance. He still didn't look angry that Gwaine had flinched back, but seemed willing to give him a second chance. The ivy leaves rustled innocently as he adjusted his grip on the wooden handle, like they didn't know that they would get spattered with blood in a second.

This time, Gwaine had to force himself not to close his eyes—somehow, it was even worse now that he had already seen the razor-sharp blade dive for his neck once before. This stroke seemed quicker than the first, probably because the Green Knight didn't want to give him the chance to escape once more. With two mighty steps, he had built up enough momentum to swing, and the axe hurtled towards him in a blur of brightness mingled with green and brown.

It was all Gwaine could do to dig his heels in and dig his fingernails into his palms to keep himself still, heart thrashing wildly in his chest like it wanted to break out of his ribcage. But even amidst the paralyzing silence in his head, Gwaine realized that something seemed off, something was different from before. The Green Knight had aimed his stroke too wide, had taken one step too many as he'd built up his momentum, and Gwaine realized that this blow would miss.

The blade whirled past his ear with a sound like the buzzing of a hundred bees, and while Gwaine felt his insides jerk as though they wanted to pull out through his spine, he kept still. He stood firm through the rush of terrified heat through his veins, although his legs had gone completely numb by now.

For a moment Gwaine thought that the momentum of his own stroke would send the Green Knight tumbling into him, but he steadied himself with a mighty effort, jerking the blade to a stop. He didn't look surprised that his blow had missed when he turned around, shaking his hair out of his narrowed eyes. He looked calculating instead, his gaze traveling up and down Gwaine's body, kept still by sheer strength of will, and he seemed to approve of what he saw.

"Very well," the Green Knight said, so quietly that Gwaine had to strain his ears to hear him through the thunder of his own heartbeat. He hefted the axe up once more, their eyes meeting for a long moment. "Now that your courage is restored, I must strike you at last."

Although he hadn't really thought of nodding, Gwaine's head bobbed up and down, the muscles in his neck twinging with tension. He realized now that the previous stroke had just been a test, that the Green Knight had wanted to see if he would jerk back again. "Be my guest, then," he replied, with far more bravado than he felt.

The Green Knight inclined his head in assent, sunlight gleaming in his hair and casting an otherworldly shimmer on his wreath of ivy. He took a slow, measured step back, and murmured, almost to himself, "May your strength save you, if it can."

Gwaine watched numbly as the Green Knight adjusted his grip on the handle once more. The air was an icy cocoon around him, and he knew that his shirt was sticking to his back by now with the cold sweat that had rolled down his spine. The others would see the dark spot spreading down from the neck of his tunic, but at least this sign of weakness was hidden from the Green Knight's view, and he would only see it when Gwaine's body had already fallen and his blood coated the ground at his feet.

For the third time, the Green Knight lunged forward, deadly intent in his eyes as he pivoted on his heel, bringing his weapon up to strike. There was no hesitation in the ageless green, no mercy and no lenience, although Gwaine thought he saw a flicker of regret.

The blade was a whirring arc of light, cutting through the air with battle-honed precision. It happened too fast to feel anything but the crippling paralysis of fear, but for some reason, the memory of the Beltane feast worked itself through the white-silver panic. The Green Knight's features betrayed nothing but intense concentration, but Gwaine still remembered the playful glint in his firelit eyes, the easy, soft smile that had come to him so readily, and he thought, with wild, terrifying exhilaration, that it wasn't all that bad to die at his hands.

There was no time to close his eyes, no time to do anything but stand still, and for a moment, Gwaine imagined it was over too quickly for him to feel much pain. A cutting sting erupted on the side of his neck, brought by the downward sweep of the axe, and it burned in the still air as Gwaine saw the blade whistle through the air until it was brought to a stop in the Green Knight's hold.

But still there was no pain. His pulse was pounding in his ears like a war drum, he could see the Green Knight's dusty boots in front of his lowered eyes, and his head didn't fall. And _didn't fall_ , and suddenly Gwaine saw the flecks of blood on the grass, freshly red and gleaming in the sunlight. _His_ blood, he realized, with a sickening jolt that went all the way down to his toes—his blood, spilled by the axe's unforgiving bite.

In a haze, Gwaine brought a hand up to the side of his neck, and his fingers found not the gaping lips of a fatal wound, but a mere cut, oozing a slow, slick trickle that soaked the collar of his shirt. It stung slightly under his trembling touch, but compared to the cut he thought he would be getting, it was a mere scratch.

He looked up at the Green Knight, his vision blurred slightly at the edges. The man had lowered his axe, and it seemed that for him, this challenge was over. He was fixing Gwaine with a hard, cool look, his eyes darker than usual like he he had just come to a startling realization, and Gwaine noticed the smear of red on the axe's blade, marring the smooth steel.

"I— what?" he whispered, so faintly that he could hardly hear his own voice. An empty, sick feeling started to spread through his stomach, because he _knew_ it couldn't be over just like this—he had come here to die, and the harmless cut on his neck left him reeling. "What— that was _it?_ "

Head cocked to the side like that of a curious bird, the Green Knight watched him for a long, silent moment. "Not quite," he replied, his voice calm, and the sudden clench of his hands around the wooden handle was all the warning Gwaine got before the blade swung towards him once more in a silver swirl of light.

There was a wispy sound of ripping fabric, and by the time Gwaine stumbled back, the Green Knight had already lowered his weapon once more. No fresh blood stained the metal, but when Gwaine looked down, he saw that his shirt had been split down the middle, exposing his chest and a strip of green fabric—

 _The girdle_ , Gwaine realized, the thought hitting home with enough force to dizzy him anew. Numbly, he looked up again, because now the Green Knight knew, he knew that he'd been wrong, that Gwaine had been a coward all along, too weak to put his word over his own life.

He could hear the others shift behind him, confused, as they couldn't see the girdle and didn't know why the Green Knight was pinning him with a steely look. Perhaps they thought the ordeal was over altogether, and Gwaine could almost picture the relief on Merlin's face, the shaky grins that Percival and Elyan would exchange. But from the corner of his vision, Gwaine saw Arthur stare at the green fabric covering his stomach, realization dawning slowly in his eyes as though he knew what it meant.

"I—," he started, and broke off, well aware that there were no words that could make this look like anything but the betrayal it was. It was almost ridiculous, how he hadn't begged for his life before, but felt like pleading now, lengthy explanations winding through his head as he struggled for words.

The shame that washed through him was sudden and acute, tearing through the disorienting fog that had settled in his mind—just a moment ago, his insides seemed to have turned to ice, but now they were squirming like snakes. The cut on his neck burned, but he paid it no heed.

Once again he opened his mouth, whether to apologize or defend himself, he didn't know. But before he could speak, the Green Knight glanced at the trees and held up a callused hand, halting the torrent of frantic words before they could escape. There was something unnameable in his gaze, a silent, intent message that Gwaine couldn't quite read—a warning, perhaps, mingled with an absolution that Gwaine knew he didn't deserve.

"Know, Sir Gwaine," the Green Knight said, his voice measured and calm, "that it was not the girdle that saved you."

Gwaine blinked, taken aback by how carefully chosen those words sounded. He tried to hold the Green Knight's gaze, but the man's eyes darted away to the treeline once more, and his stance straightened, a fissure of apprehension cutting through his calm veneer. For a long moment, he locked gazes with Arthur, who started slightly when he found himself the focus of the Green Knight's undivided attention, and then he darted an uncertain look at Merlin as though to ask him what this all meant.

Still, the Green Knight seemed to struggle to refocus his green gaze on Gwaine once more, taking a deep breath like he was bracing himself for something he had seen coming all along. "Your strength—"

"—will not preserve you," a second voice suddenly cut in, high and ringing in the stillness of the air, and Gwaine turned around just in time to see the Lady Morgana step out of the trees.

 

  


 

Of all the moments that had given Merlin near-heart attacks today, it felt like Morgana's appearance almost did the job.

Although it had been months since he'd last seen her, he recognized her voice immediately, and judging from the way Arthur spun around on his heel as though he'd been struck, he was not the only one. The sudden shift in the atmosphere was almost palpable, the clearing's collective attention shifting from Gwaine and the Green Knight to Morgana. Metal scraped at Merlin's right, and when he glanced over, he was not surprised to see that Leon and Lancelot had drawn their weapons.

His first thought was that Morgana looked different, although he couldn't quite tell how much of it came from the dangerous crackle that hovered in the air around her. She wore a dark cloak, the hood thrown back to expose her head, but it looked nothing like the cloaks he'd seen her wear in Camelot before. The hems were torn, the fabric dirty and worn from weeks of exposure to the changing weather.

But she still carried herself the same way, with the same regal grace that bordered on arrogance—an arrogance that had made Merlin smile once upon a time because it was so much like the imperious haughtiness that Arthur often drew around him like a coat. But now it was hard and cold, weathered by storms, and it sent a shiver through Merlin that he had ever thought her and her brother alike.

On its own accord, his gaze drifted to Arthur, whose face had gone completely white and who was watching Morgana too, helpless shock brightening his eyes. He stared at the knotted, dirty tangles of hair that hung about her face, the smeared dust on her face that looked like she'd been traveling and had never bothered with a quick wash in a mountain stream.

Most of all, he seemed transfixed by her eyes, once green but now littered with specks of gold that glowed erratically like dying embers. Merlin didn't know what she had done to change her eyes like that—even his own had always returned to blue, no matter how much magic he'd been doing—but in a way, he figured he might not want to know.

"Most excellent," Morgana said, almost to herself, and let out a misplaced girlish giggle as she looked around the clearing. She spread her hands in mock welcome, and Merlin saw that she was clutching something dark and charred, but couldn't quite make out what it was. "You're all here, alone, defenseless—oh, this is a far better outcome than I ever dared to dream of!"

She gave them a wide, guileless smile, and Merlin half expected her to clap her hands in childish glee. A shiver crawled down his spine, slow like the creeping dread that began to curl into a cold ball in his stomach. Her eyes sparked with sputtering gold whenever she moved, like the magic in her was drawn so far up to the surface that it was almost beyond her control, but she didn't seem to notice.

When she stepped further away from the treeline, Merlin noticed how the very grass seemed to shrink back from her as if curdled by an unseen breeze. The bark of the ancient oaks groaned when she passed them, like they were struggling to stretch away from the mud-spattered hem of her cloak.

"You know, I thought you had figured me out," Morgana told Arthur, conversationally, like they were loosely acquainted nobles on a courtly feast. She laughed again, a high, trilling sound that rang out across the clearing, and she looked around at the others as if sharing a private joke with them. "When you sent the squires back to Camelot, I thought they were going to come back with the entire army, but it seems like I've still outwitted you!"

The gleam in her eyes made Merlin's skin pull tight with apprehension, tiny crackles of golden light sparking on his fingertips, but no one so much as looked at him, and so he didn't try to suppress the wave of magic that crested on the surface of his mind. His gaze firmly fixed on the white-knuckled clench of Morgana's hand around the blackened thing, he tried to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. He told himself that he was more than equipped to strike her down as soon as she so much as moved a finger in Arthur's direction, but apprehension continued to pulse through him anyway.

"Morgana," Arthur said finally, not really an acknowledgement of what she'd said—it sounded more like a question. It was the first time he saw her since he'd found out that she was his sister, Merlin realized, and winced a little at the uncertainty in Arthur's voice, concealed beneath a veneer of expressionless indifference.

Distaste flickered across Morgana's features, dimming her smile for a moment, as if that tone stirred at something hidden deep within her mind, something that she didn't want to look at. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with contempt. "I will not listen to your empty platitudes— brother," she added, the word tumbling from her mouth without her consent.

She paused, frowning, as her own acknowledgement of the blood bond between her and Arthur threw her off kilter. For a moment she looked lonely and confused, like she'd forgotten altogether why she was even here; her eyes grew brighter, the gold dimming as she glanced around the clearing, looking for something she had lost.

Slowly, Leon inched noiselessly through a cluster of bushes that seemed to bend their twigs out of his way to avoid any rustling, heading for Morgana's left side, for the hand that was holding the charred object. His eyes flickered back and forth between Arthur and Morgana, his hold on his dagger tense but secure. Gwaine was right next to him—he looked paler than Merlin had ever seen him, the blood on his neck all the brighter for the contrast, but his gaze was calm and calculating.

Nobody spoke or made a sound. Merlin saw Morgana still the trembling of her hands with a mighty effort, and suddenly he could barely suppress the urge to jump forward and try to talk her out of whatever she was planning, right now, while she seemed susceptible to the influence of reason.

"No," Morgana said to herself, her gaze turning inward. The flaring shards of gold in her eyes cast a strange, unearthly glow on her face, and Merlin knew that the moment was over. "I didn't listen when Uther begged me to kill him instead of his people, and I don't have to listen now either."

Merlin saw Arthur's shoulders pull tight against the flinch that wanted to force its way past his defenses at the mention of his father. But he didn't say anything, and Morgana took a deep breath, shaking herself. Lancelot and Elyan had used her momentary distraction to creep closer to her other side, and even without looking over his shoulder, Merlin knew that Percival was standing behind him, ready to protect or lash out as he saw fit.

The smile was back on Morgana's face as if it had never been gone. It had nothing in common with the contemptuous, knowing smirk that Merlin had seen so often during her last months in Camelot, and that was what scared him. In a way, it looked helpless, forced onto her lips without her consent, simply because the mad, exalted triumph in her eyes needed an outlet.

"This time," Morgana said to Arthur, turning back to him like her monologue had never happened at all, "not even your knights will save you." A brief, glowing glance skimmed the others, and tension rippled across the clearing—Merlin felt Percival step closer to him, his body heat reassuring at Merlin's back.

"I had quite a nice talk with Bayard," she told them, disinterestedly, as though it bored her to tell them how well her plan had worked. "And he dispatched so many of his patrols to follow me here when I told him of a potential threat to his kingdom, it was quite kind of him."

The look she fixed Arthur with reminded Merlin a bit of the old Morgana, hard and unforgiving as it was, her eyes suddenly devoid of the strange, cheerful gleam. "Mercian soldiers are on their way to the Chapel," Morgana said, each word precise and deadly like the lash of a whip, "and I wonder what they'll tell their king when they find the crown prince of Camelot and his knights, armed and incognito in the middle of their lands."

A ringing silence fell, and Merlin fought to keep his features impassive and devoid of the shock that coursed through his veins. He tried to tell himself that he'd known this—he had pieced together the bits of information that he had gathered over the past weeks of their journey to form exactly the picture that Morgana was showing them now. But the realization that he'd been right, that Morgana had indeed lured them here, still hit him hard.

"He'll declare war on Camelot, I think," Morgana stated idly, shaking a stray lock of hair from her face. The cold, calculating awareness had vanished from her features, leaving blank, childish glee in its wake. She leaned forward, closer to Arthur, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper when she added, "And I really don't think Uther's strategic skills are what they used to be, you know."

Arthur shook his head as if to chase away an annoying fly that buzzed close to his ear. Anger throbbed through Merlin, sudden and unexpected, not really because of Morgana's words, but because of how tightly the prince was holding himself in check. He wanted to step closer to Arthur and wrap him in a protective cocoon of golden, glowing magic, but he didn't dare move, for fear of drawing attention to himself. All of his instincts were screaming at him to be careful and wait.

"You will stop this," Arthur said, so quietly that Merlin almost didn't hear him. His voice was flat and unemotional, but there was a rawness just beneath the veneer that pulled uncomfortably at something within Merlin's chest. "You'll send the Mercians away, you'll tell Bayard that you were wrong—"

 _—and then I might give you another chance_ , he didn't add, but Merlin heard the words like Arthur had shouted them. He didn't know if it was the deranged cheer on his sister's features that disarmed him, but something was keeping Arthur in check, holding back the betrayed anger that Merlin knew had built up and up since Cenred's attack, waiting to be unleashed.

"Oh, but what makes you think I'd want to do that?" Morgana asked, amusement bubbling into her voice and threatening to break out in a giggle. Merlin couldn't help the uneasy shiver that raced down his spine, and from the corner of his eye he saw Leon and Gwaine exchange a grave look. "I have help this time, don't I?"

For the first time, Morgana's attention shifted. All around the clearing, heads turned to follow her gaze, but even before Merlin had pivoted on his heel, he knew she was looking at the Green Knight. Merlin caught a glimpse of Arthur's face when he turned around, his features white and tight as though carved out of marble.

"Indeed I do," Morgana muttered, frowning for a moment like she was struggling to come to a decision. Confusion flickered across her features again, but this time her own reassurances were quicker to pull her mind back. "This is most convenient. You," she added, pointing at the Green Knight with a careless finger, and Merlin saw that her nails were ragged and torn, crusted with earth and blood, "you will hold them here until the Mercian soldiers arrive."

The Green Knight stared at her with an expression that Merlin didn't think he'd ever quite seen. Pity, anger, reluctance—but most of all, overwhelming revulsion, like he was seeing Morgana clearly for the first time. An unearthly glow seemed to hang in the air around him like a towering wave, reflected by the metal clasps of his tunic and the shining blade of his axe. His fingers twitched, probably longing to curl into fists or around the handle, but he kept his hands well clear of his weapon.

"I have been lenient," he said in a near whisper, but there was no rustling of leaves around them, no faraway calls of birds, and so his voice carried anyway. "I have been most patient with you, even though you made me your _slave_ ," he spat out the word like it was something vile, "even though your nightmares left scorched scars in my realm—"

Morgana's anger erupted so suddenly that Merlin hadn't even seen it coming. Her features twisted into a grimace of fury, her body hunching in on itself to keep it in, but then it burst out of her anyway, golden arcs of light whipping through the air before they went out in showers of sparks.

" _You_ have been lenient?" she shouted shrilly, her voice echoing through the clearing, and Merlin didn't even stop to think about it—he used her distraction to hurry to Arthur's side, his feet making no sound on the grass.

The air was thick and charged with the magic that had broken out of Morgana, and for the first time Merlin felt a stirring of true fear. It was like he had assumed—even the remnants of magic tasted stale and charred in his mouth, like power that had been cooped up for so long that it had become primal and uncontrollable.

"It is not your place to _pity_ me!" Morgana shrieked, and Merlin saw her fingers curl into claws in her unthinking fury. She didn't even look at him, her gaze fixed only on the Green Knight, but although he had reached Arthur, Merlin didn't dare whisper the words of a shielding spell. "You should beg me for _mercy_ so I don't end your pathetic existence here and now!"

The Green Knight's features twitched, and for a moment, ageless, unearthing anger broke through before his mask of strained patience slipped back into place. "I know what the loss of your sister did to you," he began once more, slowly, and Merlin silently marveled at the fact that he was even trying to get through to her. He wasn't sure whether he would have done the same if he had been in the Green Knight's position.

But Morgana wasn't listening anymore. A hysterical, manic smile spread across her features, even as Merlin saw her eyes grow wet and vulnerable at the mention of Morgause—the sight chilled him more than the explosion of magic a moment ago, and he drew closer to Arthur without thinking. A cold ball of dread was squirming in his gut, and he had to physically force himself to stand still and not try to whisk them all away to a safe place.

Morgana lifted her chin, perhaps to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks, and when the golden fragments in her eyes gleamed again, the trace of uncertainty was gone from her features. She looked only at the Green Knight, still smiling, and said, "Don't think I don't know how to make you _burn_."

With dreamlike slowness, she raised her left hand.

The Green Knight went completely and utterly still, not even blinking as his eyes focused on her white fingers, soiled by dirt and soot. With a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach, Merlin gazed at her hand as well, although he suddenly wished that he had the strength to look away. The stench of scorched plants drifted over to them, and when Morgana uncurled her hand, Merlin wasn't even all that surprised by what he saw.

An ivy leaf was lying in her palm, and Merlin's first thought was that it didn't look like the one that was still hidden beneath his tunic, pressed securely to his chest. His leaf was thrumming with life, the bright green veins shot through with thriving health. But Morgana's leaf looked like it had been burned. The edges were singed and curly, paper-thin fibers barely keeping it whole, and Merlin saw little green veins pulse weakly in the middle, struggling to sustain what little life was left in it.

Morgana held out the leaf for everyone to see, like a child proudly showing off a trophy to her peers. Fixed on the Green Knight, her eyes went a triumphant gold, and there was nothing but command in her voice as it rang across the clearing. " _Ic þē gebīede_ ," she called, and the leaf's veins suddenly began to glow even as smoke curled faintly from its edges, " _hīe āgæle!_ "

It felt like a punch to the gut. Even mercifully cut off from the forest's magic as he was, Merlin still couldn't suppress the bone-deep shudder that clawed its way through his stomach, leaving him bent over and gasping. Dimly, he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and felt Arthur's startled touch on his shoulder, and he blinked his eyes open with a monumental effort, fighting to see through the black spots that danced in front of his vision.

The first thing he saw was the Green Knight, and the very air seemed to shake around him, fighting with maddened fury against the spell. His features twisted and Merlin saw him widen his stance like he was preparing to face an armed foe, his whole body trembling as he struggled for control—but Morgana had given him a direct order, and the glowing leaf in her palm told Merlin that he had to obey.

The Green Knight curled his fingers and slowly raised his hands, his open palms facing the sky, and for a moment Merlin thought he saw glittering strings of magic pull tight around him, thin and silvery in the sunlight. Then the ground shuddered beneath him, and Merlin suddenly understood what Morgana had commanded the Green Knight to do. "No!" he shouted, uselessly, even as he saw Lancelot stumble on the other side of the clearing, the air thick like syrup in his lungs. "Run!"

Gwaine lurched forward, trying to throw his body into motion, but his movements looked odd and sluggish, and a second later, Merlin understood why. Thorny tendrils were growing up his legs, winding around his boots in a thickening curl of green and brown as leaves sprouted upwards, unfurling themselves and turning their newborn fibers towards the sunlight.

He tried to stumble back even as Percival and Elyan let out shocked shouts, their feet suddenly glued to the ground by thick tangles of grass and wooden twines—then a small field of clover erupted from the ground at Merlin's boots, holding fast to his heel. Thin, strong branches grew up his legs and hooked their thorns into his trousers, not hard enough to sting, but firmly enough to keep him still. Long stalks of grass wound around his knees and locked his legs in place, knotting with the twines to form an impenetrable tangle.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur and Leon hack and slash at the greenery that imprisoned their legs with their longest daggers. Percival's face was twisted into a grimace of concentration as he struggled to free his legs, tearing at the twines with his bare hands. Shredded leaves flew every which way, strips of bark were ripped from the tangles, but the plants just grew back, sprouting fresh sets of tendrils wherever one was hacked off.

Merlin stopped trying to move when the first twigs reached curiously for his flailing hands, and forced himself into stillness, blood roaring in his ears. He was panting with exertion and fear, but as soon as he held still, the twines stopped growing, and he couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him. The clawing, claustrophobic panic subsided—although he couldn't walk, he wasn't completely immobilized, and the plants didn't seem to want to envelop him completely in their green embrace.

When he looked around, he saw that the others had stopped struggling as well, having come to the same conclusion. He caught Arthur's eye and they exchanged a helpless glance, although Merlin couldn't help a tiny moment of relief when he saw that the color had finally returned to Arthur's face, and he didn't look as stunned and helpless anymore.

"Very good!" Morgana exclaimed, clapping her hands, heedless of the trickle of soot that fell from between her fingers. She grinned at the Green Knight as if he had done her bidding of his own free will.

His restrained legs began to prickle from the cut-off blood flow, and Merlin fought to contain the terror that tried to force its way past his defenses. They were stuck, trussed up like a bunch of pigs waiting patiently for their butcher, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. The Green Knight couldn't help them, and Merlin didn't know how to help _him_ , he'd never had any idea how to free him from Morgana's control, in spite of the trust that Kilgharrah and the Green Knight had put into him. He struggled to keep his breathing even, ignoring the cold sweat that slid down his back, and his chest was burning, although he couldn't tell if it was from fear or a lack of air.

"Now we will just have to wait for the soldiers to arrive," Morgana said, conversationally, and smiled sunnily at Arthur. Merlin ground his teeth so hard they hurt when she stepped towards him, his magic a furious, panicked clamor in his ears, but she didn't try to touch him.

She just stared at Arthur for a long moment, searching her brother's stony, blank features for any traces of fear, like she wanted to check whether she'd made an impression on him yet. What she saw didn't satisfy her, Merlin could tell, because she flung back her hair in a gesture that was oddly reminiscent of her old self, although the dirty tangles held nothing of what used to be glossy black.

"You'll beg for your life soon enough," she told Arthur, with an vehement coldness that made Merlin think that she was trying to convince herself as much as him. Her lip curled in disgust, a short flicker of fury sparking through her eyes. "Or maybe you'll beg me to spare _Uther_ instead, the bumbling mad fool shut away in his castle, too _broken_ to plead for his life himself—"

Color flooded Arthur's cheeks, and he snarled at her in wordless fury, lurching forward in his constraints. A thorny twine crept up his chest as though in warning, and abruptly, the skin on Merlin's chest felt like it was breaking out in an itchy rash. From the corner of his eye, he could see the others, their eyes fixed on Morgana with varying expressions of anger and disbelief. Elyan was still struggling against his entrapment, keeping his movements slow and deliberate as he tried to squirm out of the plants' hold without triggering their growth yet again.

But one face wasn't turned towards Morgana, and Merlin finally looked over his shoulder at the Green Knight. He was startled to find that the man was staring at _him_ instead of his conqueror, his face pale but determined, the fathomless depths of his green gaze effortlessly drawing Merlin in. There was a warning there, an insistent, silent message, and Merlin squirmed in his constraints as his sternum prickled with heat.

He couldn't figure out what the Green Knight was trying to tell him, couldn't _think_ with danger looming so close, and he tore his gaze away, frantically scanning the treeline instead. Morgana was right, he thought, struggling to push down the hysteria that bubbled up in him like poison. They could only wait, wait to hear the familiar clang of armor, the scrape of unsheathed swords and the creak of bowstrings, pulled tight for arrows that were meant for their hearts.

 _Their hearts_ , a tiny, insistent voice repeated at the back of his mind, and he paused at the thought. Merlin's own heart was thrashing with its frantic pulse, pounding against his ribcage as though it wanted to crawl right out, and his chest was on _fire_ , it stung and burned and itched unlike anything he'd ever felt before, like his very skin was trying to peel itself from his flesh—

Merlin's gaze flew to the leaf of ivy that was still clutched in Morgana's hand, and he understood.

A strange calm washed over him as he stood there, claiming him in long, slow waves that stilled his squirming. Morgana was still whispering of Uther's madness, her mouth curled into a deranged parody of her former smirk, but her eyes grew darker and darker with fury as she tried to find words that would break down her brother's defenses. But Merlin barely heard her over the rush of blood in his ears, and it didn't matter anyway—none of it mattered, if only he could do what he knew he had to.

He moved with deliberate care, trying not to draw attention to himself as he brought a hand to his chest, his trembling fingers searching his pulse. The Green Knight was still watching him, his gaze like a physical touch as Merlin slowly, so slowly reached into the neckline of his tunic, hoping, praying that the strange movement wouldn't catch Morgana's eye. His fingers were clammy with sweat, but Morgana never even glanced at him, turning away from Arthur with a childish pout of contempt.

The ivy leaf stopped scorching his skin as soon as Merlin touched it, and he knew he had figured out the Green Knight's silent message.

Constrained as he still was, the green coils and twines around his legs felt more like a welcome anchor when he gently pulled the leaf from his collar. A tiny pulse was hammering through its veins under his touch, and he wished he could soothe it somehow. It had kept him safe and sane for the past three days, and what he was about to do wasn't exactly going to return the favor.

With a hazy sort of surprise that barely scratched the resolve in his mind, Merlin realized that he had not gone unnoticed after all. Gwaine's puzzled gaze was fixed on him—he must have struggled with his bonds more than the others, because his right arm was almost completely overgrown with twigs and leaves. A thin crust of clotted blood was covering the wound on his neck, drying to patches of brown on the collar of his shirt.

Merlin swallowed hard and looked away, trying not to think of Percival and Elyan—they were the only ones who didn't know about his magic yet, but now they would. He was acutely aware of Percival's tall bulk somewhere behind him, and Elyan had almost managed to free his thigh from the clutch of the twines.

And Arthur was staring at him as well with wide, wild eyes, his gaze bluer than the sky and for the first time, afraid—as if he knew what Merlin was going to do and was silently imploring him not to. Merlin smiled at him, helplessly, trying to hide how his stomach clenched around a shivery ball of fear that bled through the strange sense of peace that had befallen him, and Arthur opened his mouth to order Merlin to stop.

Tearing his gaze away from Arthur, Merlin took a deep, steadying breath, and let go of the leaf.

It hovered in the air before him, suspended by a thread of power that he wasn't sure was his own, but then he forgot to wonder about it. With a triumphant, primal roar that was meant for his ears only, the forest's magic slammed into him, thundering through his veins and infusing his very breaths with raw, untamed power. All of his muscles convulsed in protest under the assault, blood boiling hotly in his veins like it wanted to force its way out of his body. He thought he screamed, but maybe it was just an echo of the forest's all-encompassing call of victory—

Far away, somebody shouted his name, a hollow, forlorn sound that reached him as though through a long tunnel. Blackness raced through his blurred vision, swooping down on him like a bird of prey, and he let himself be pulled under.

 

  


 

In retrospect, Merlin knew that it couldn't have lasted longer than a few seconds at most, but right then and there, it felt like hours.

He didn't open his eyes; he didn't need to. He could still see the sky that stretched endlessly above him, saturated with blue in the brilliant sunlight, save for a feathery dusting of clouds that dotted the horizon, smelling faintly of mist. There was no eye-bound sight, no sense of self, but he could see, hear, _feel_ the forest enclosing him from all sides, above and below—

 _In_ him, he realized, and it was like something had cracked within him, the last vital connection snapping like a thread. He swung himself up, and up, and an ancient, primal thrum of power rose to meet him, enfolding him in its clear-scented, warm embrace, and Merlin forgot that it had been mere seconds since his fingers had let go of the ivy leaf, forgot that he had ever had hands to begin with, forgot to _be._

He was the wind and the earth, he was the tiny blades of grass that peeked out from beneath the trees' gnarled roots, turning their newborn green stems into the warm light. He was the thick, sharp-smelling sap that pulsed through the trees, enriched by the recent rains, and he unfolded each of his millions of leaves towards the sun, with a fluttering shudder that seemed to ripple across his very mind. His laughter was the bubbling exuberance of water skipping through a mountain stream, sweeping him along in its current, carrying him through green glades and copses of young birches that greeted him as he flew past.

The center of him was the Chapel, drawing him in with the grounding pull of power that had tumbled him into the air. He ruffled the ivy on the walls with a playful breeze, each leaf singing to him with an ageless, luring call that went deeper even than the forest's raw power—and he knew then that it had grown centuries ago, nourished by blood that had been spilled there, soaking the cracked marble floor of the crumbled citadel.

Whose blood, he didn't remember, but neither could he think of any reason why he should. Merlin still felt the others at the edge of his consciousness, tiny flickers of moving bodies and fluttering pulses that stirred up a vague curiosity in his mind. He saw the silvery threads of power expanding outwards, binding them to the ground with thorns and twines, and he wondered, with an absent sort of interest, why they were still fighting. It would be so much easier to surrender, because Merlin knew that the forest wouldn't let them go.

But one of them was struggling against the constraints more vigorously than the rest, and Merlin looked down at the golden shock of hair in confusion, a dim sense of familiarity tickling at the back of his mind. He was fighting to reach another figure who was just standing there, awash with a flow of energy that seemed to expand and contract, eyes an impossible shade of bright gold. Merlin could hear it now, the frantic sound breaking from the light-haired one—a voice, shouting something that echoed through the trees, and the faint, wet _thud-thud-thud_ from the other one, where a heart was still beating in its feeble mortal shell, a weak, pleading call for him to return.

 _His_ heart, he suddenly realized, and with that, it was as if a dormant part of him had been shocked awake. Awareness returned to his mind, at first in a hesitant trickle, then a growing flood when he remembered why he was here, why he had let the forest's magic claim him in the first place. He fought to rein in his exhilaration as he raced across the treetops with the wind, spiraling down into the clearing like an invisible bird, and it was like the forest realized what he was doing, because he felt it relinquish its hold on his mind and draw back, just enough to free his thoughts.

Now that he was looking for them, Merlin saw the thick, glittering threads of pure, primal magic that wrapped the Green Knight in Morgana's control. There were holes and gaps in the cocoon of power that Morgana had spun around him, left either by inexperience or carelessness, and the twines all came together in the ivy leaf in Morgana's hand.

The connection had been forced into existence with an upheaval of power that must have shaken the ground beneath the Chapel. But, racing along the currents of magic that swept back and forth between Morgana and the Green Knight like an invisible tide, he realized for the first time that it was not unbreakable.

With a monumental effort that felt like it shook the very foundations of his being, Merlin pulled himself back.

Slamming back into his body _hurt_ , hurt like nothing he had ever felt before, and for a moment he was almost grateful for the lack of air in his lungs because it stopped him from screaming. He snapped back into place like he'd never been gone, his bones creaking with the strain as his muscles convulsed all at once. There was solid ground beneath his feet and the numbing weight of his own body all around him, his heartbeat nearly drowning out the sound of Arthur calling his name, over and over, with a frantic, wild fear that told him that he knew exactly what Merlin had just done.

When he opened his eyes, what he saw was a pale imitation of the endlessly powerful senses he had possessed before, and for a moment, he was almost tempted to let go once more. He felt like he would cry with the jagged, overwhelming _grief_ of it, of being so encased, shut away in a pulsing vessel that squelched wetly whenever it moved, tendons and sinews rubbing together as coppery blood pumped sluggish energy into its muscles.

He caught Arthur's gaze, bone-deep exhaustion clawing through him, but he knew he couldn't falter, not now, with the feeling of Morgana's hold on the Green Knight still fresh in his mind. He took a breath, the first in what felt like ages, and the dizziness retreated a little, and when he focused his weak human eyes, he saw that his ivy leaf was still hovering in front of him, glowing faintly as if in greeting.

"Merlin—?" somebody whispered from around the clearing, maybe Percival or Elyan, startled by the golden tide that he had just drawn back into himself, but Merlin didn't look up. Acutely aware of every single pair of eyes resting on him, he took another deep breath that filled his lungs to the brim, knowing that he had to be quick and catch Morgana off guard while she still had no idea what was happening.

With the echoes of the forest's power still zapping through his blood, finding the connection again was almost laughably easy. Merlin braced himself, hoping he wouldn't black out again, called it all to the surface, and _pulled_.

The ground shuddered beneath them, and everything went still.

"What?" Morgana whispered into the silence, her eyes wide and wary. Her head whipped back and forth as she tried to stare at all of them at once, and Merlin saw her hands begin to shake when she looked down.

The leaf in her palm was smoking once more, curling into a charred black thing whose veins pulsed wildly, aware that something was going on, that something was changing. Almost gently, Merlin threaded tendrils of his own magic through the breaks and gaps in Morgana's enchantment, until they hung in the air like a golden net, pulsing with blinding light wherever they entwined.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Elyan flinch back from an arc of golden light that hovered near him—for a moment, a tiny, unoccupied corner of his mind wished that he could tell them not to be afraid. The centuries-old power of the forest flowed through him like a river, just as primal and unearthing in its unstoppable current, but respectfully skirting around the edges of his conscious, mindful of its magnetic pull on Merlin's soul.

But he couldn't break it, couldn't just snap the threads that bound the Green Knight to Morgana, and Merlin paused for a long moment, feeling sweat drip down his brow. His entire body was shaking with the strain of holding itself up, and his eyes felt like they were going to burn in their sockets, his heartbeat a stumbling, sickening thud in his throat. Still, he pulled once more, yanking on the coils and curls of Morgana's spell until it felt like the ground beneath his feet would come undone with it.

Morgana let out a shrill scream when the leaf in her hand suddenly went up in flames, but it didn't burn properly—her magic was protecting it, reducing Merlin's fire to a smoldering curl of flame at its very edges. The flickering light was reflected in her wide eyes as she looked around, trying to find whoever was struggling to break her hold, until her furious, disbelieving gaze came to rest on the Green Knight.

" _Āstynte!_ " she roared at him, and Merlin saw him stumble as if in pain, steadying himself against the handle of his axe—it had been a command to stop, Merlin thought, but the Green Knight couldn't stop what he wasn't even doing. Morgana hadn't yet realized that it was Merlin who was uprooting her enchantment, slowly but steadily, like the patient pull of wind on the leafy crown of a tree.

Sudden fury coursed through him, and he didn't know whether it was his own or that of the forest, but he didn't care. He raised his hands, noticing absently that his veins were glowing with a golden glimmer beneath his skin, and took hold of the ivy leaf that still hovered in the air in front of him, as green and healthy as Morgana's was not.

He needed a focal point, something to anchor all of this power, and once he understood what he had to do, it felt like a knot had loosened within him. This time, he didn't push so much as _shove_ , and all the glowing tendrils in the clearing suddenly rounded on Morgana, twisting with crackles of power, and in the split-second that it took her eyes to widen, she seemed to realize what they were after.

She curled her fingers around her ivy leaf and flung out her free hand. Long cords of fire whipped through the air, singeing the trees around her as they were thrown into the clearing, aimlessly surging for something to destroy. Heat brushed past Merlin's face when a lick of flame shot over his shoulder, and he could hear shouts of alarm—behind him, Percival flailed wildly in his leafy constraints as he tried to twist out of the way.

But Merlin put out the burning air with a just a brief flicker of his magic, and felt the beginnings of unraveling tension in the air as the connection _shifted_ , following the lure of his call to the heated, pulsing magic that gathered between his palms. Across the clearing, the Green Knight shuddered but didn't fall to his knees, and his form seemed to blur and twist out of focus like a sudden cloud of mist had descended on him.

He sent the leafy tendrils back into the earth with a mere thought, and Morgana let out a shout of uncomprehending fury as the bindings fell away from her foes, the thorns obediently drawing back from boots and breeches. Soot trickled from her left fist, and she didn't seem to notice that her leaf was still glowing with heat and scorched her skin.

Merlin saw her mouth open once more, terrified determination in her eyes as she sought for words for a spell that would make the Green Knight come to her aid again—and with a long outrush of air from his lungs, he took control.

With the forest's approving roar at the very back of his mind, it was almost easy. Even the trees seemed to sway in his direction when Merlin unearthed the twisted, barbed threads that bound the Green Knight, and he tried to be gentle, struggled to be careful, but it wasn't easy, with not only his own magic thundering through his head.

He heard Morgana shriek out furious denials as she realized what was happening, but it was too late. The thickly-woven net of power felt strangely familiar when Merlin pushed it into the hot, throbbing life between his palms, embedding it tightly within the tiny green veins, anchoring all of its power with his touch.

The ivy leaf glowed so brightly that it stung his eyes, but it didn't burn, and there was no backlash of feral, betrayed fury from the Green Knight's end of the bond. There was just an odd sense of settling, like a breathy exhale after a long, hard day, and Merlin felt it surge through the air, expanding into the trees like ripples in a pond.

Morgana looked up, her eyes burning just as golden as Merlin's, and this time she saw him, stared straight at him through her helpless rage.

For a long minute, they held each other's gazes, Morgana's face utterly blank with shock as she took in the green, healthy leaf in his hand, the unearthly power that was coiled and waiting within his very veins. Her eyes flickered to the Green Knight as she finally seemed to understand what Merlin had done, that he had taken command of him to rip him away from her control, and Morgana's leaf crumbled between her fingers. The last connection snapped like a thread.

There was a moment of eerie, weightless silence, as Morgana stared at the sooty dust in her palm, shudders rippling through her body. Her head jerked up again, she sought and found Merlin's gaze, and the look in her eyes was unlike anything Merlin had ever seen on her face. She looked impossibly young, betrayal and incredulity mixing with hollow desperation as she realized what she had lost, and Merlin struggled to focus, to brace himself for whatever she would throw at him in revenge.

But before she could utter a spell or a curse, Leon was suddenly there, faithful, quick-witted Leon, who had crossed the clearing while they had all been distracted and whose dagger was now pressed to Morgana's throat. "Not a word," he warned, his face paler than usual, but his voice and hands were steady.

Merlin let out a long, slow breath, exhaustion suddenly crashing through him like a tidal wave. His vision dimmed dangerously, and only now did he notice the sweat that dampened his tunic and stuck it to his back. There was movement all around the clearing now, like Leon had shaken the others out of their stunned stillness, but Merlin couldn't keep his eyes open anymore to watch what they would do. His lids slipped shut on their own accord, a cool, soothing relief to the hot soreness in his eyes.

"Merlin," someone hissed next to his ear, and Merlin struggled not to turn blindly into the touch when Arthur grabbed his shoulder to keep him from falling. He yanked his eyes open again with some difficulty, and came face to face with the prince, who looked concerned, shocked, incredulous, and irritated all at once.

But mostly concerned, Merlin amended silently when Arthur's gaze flickered up and down his form, searching for injuries that weren't there, and he tightened his hold on Merlin's shoulder when Merlin's legs wobbled under his weight. "What in the hell did you _do?_ "

"Stop shouting at him, princess," a voice said from his left, and Merlin's other arm was seized in a firm grip to keep his knees from buckling. Gwaine grinned down at him, still pale but composed, and gently patted his shoulder, mindful of the bone-deep fatigue that pulled on Merlin like a lead weight. "Whatever you did, it worked."

"I am not shouting—," Arthur began imperiously, but Merlin didn't hear the rest of the sentence. His head felt empty and cold without the forest's ancient power coursing through him, but he still allowed himself a slow exhale that felt like it carried away all of the residual tension. It was over, he thought, his blurry gaze flickering across Morgana's crumpled form—her breathing was coming in short, sharp bursts, and her broken, glowing gaze was fixed only on him, hollow comprehension dawning in her eyes. It was over, and Merlin unconsciously curled his fingers tighter around the cool, smooth leaf in his hand.

A sudden motion caught his attention, and he struggled to focus his gaze, barely noticing that the others had drawn close around them in a loose half-circle, all of them looking back and forth between Morgana and the Green Knight, trying to assess how much of a threat they still posed.

And the Green Knight was staring at _him_ , Merlin noticed, with a flinch that abruptly silenced Arthur and Gwaine's quiet bickering. His green gaze bore straight into Merlin's, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his hands well clear of his axe as though he wanted to look as unthreatening as possible.

Merlin swallowed, trying to draw himself up to his full height despite the tiredness that pulsed through him. He couldn't read that gaze, and the Green Knight's expression was carefully wiped blank of any emotion—he just kept himself utterly still, and stared at Merlin, waiting, waiting—

Waiting to be controlled, Merlin realized, with a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach. He glanced down at the ivy leaf in his palm, and suddenly it was all he could do not to drop it as though he'd been burned. Nausea coiled in his gut, and he couldn't bring himself to meet the Green Knight's eyes again, shame trickling through the fatigue in his mind. This wasn't quite like it had been supposed to happen. He hadn't _wanted_ this—he'd just tried to break the hold that Morgana had on the Green Knight, and when that hadn't worked, he had simply done the next best thing and taken control of it.

The words came to him as though from a great distance, dripping past the barrier to his subconscious. They were like a breathed whisper from the forest itself, and Merlin used Gwaine's arm for leverage as he pulled himself forward to stand on his own, slowly raising his other hand so that everyone could see the dark green leaf. It shimmered with something more than just sunlight, and Merlin knew that the unearthly glow was reflected in his face, but right then, he did not care who saw it.

" _Ic þē aheorde, grēne cniht_ ," he said, his voice loud and clear as he locked eyes with the Green Knight, giving him the tiniest of nods as he set him free. He felt his control unravel, and he welcomed the feeling, not even caring to hide the flash of gold in his eyes anymore although he knew that every gaze around the clearing was resting on him.

Abruptly, the leaf stopped glowing. For a moment it hovered in the air, suspended above his hand, but then it fluttered to the ground, all traces of magic gone from its smooth green surface.

As one, the forest breathed, and the Green Knight breathed with it. A mighty gust of wind tore through the clearing, ripping twigs and leaves from the trees—all around them, bark groaned and branches shook, the woods waking with the wordless call of their lord. Merlin didn't realize he'd taken a step back until he bumped into Arthur's chest, but the others were drawing back as well, eyeing their surroundings with watchful wariness.

The Green Knight slowly reached out his hands, palms facing the sky, and tipped his head back, eyes closed like he was savoring his very first breath of sweet, sweet air after far too long a time spent in a dank cave. He inhaled again, and Merlin felt the ground rumble in response, every single blade of grass, every thorned branch bending towards him.

When he had let the forest claim him, Merlin had thought he'd gotten a taste of the man's power, but now, watching a wild sort of triumph dawn on the Green Knight's features, he realized that he hadn't even seen half of it. The Green Knight looked taller than before, and for a moment his entire form seemed to blur, his body coming in and out of focus like Merlin's eyes couldn't quite zero in on him.

He held his breath, skin tingling with the thick crackle of magic in the air, and waited, the thunder of his heartbeat the only sound breaking the silence—surely the Green Knight would shed his mortal shell in favor of the boundless, untamed existence above the trees. Wind raced through the forest with an almighty roar, and Merlin heard the answering rustles of leaves grow further and further away, like the air itself was spreading the word of its master's freedom.

Merlin waited, staring almost greedily, and felt a smile break out across his face on its own accord, simple joy on the Green Knight's behalf filling him to the brim. He would return to the eternal, unearthly realm that Merlin had been allowed into for a short moment, his mortal form would disappear, until the only afterimage of his existence would be the fading echo of exuberant, victorious laughter on the wind.

But then the Green Knight's shape steadied and solidified again, the strange blurriness flickering back to his sturdy clothes. He opened his eyes and looked around the clearing, green gaze focusing almost lovingly on every tree, every twine of ivy that grew on the walls of his Chapel, like he was seeing them clearly for the first time in months and wanted to savor the feeling. Then his eyes sought and found Merlin, and he inclined his head in a gesture that wasn't quite a bow and more a show of silent gratitude. Feeling oddly disappointed that he hadn't rejoined his ethereal realm after all, Merlin swallowed hard and nodded back.

The Green Knight turned towards the far side of the clearing, his features hardening. Nobody spoke when he crossed the quiet glade in long strides, and even the grass bent out of his way, seeming to pick up on the shift in his mood. Merlin's lungs suddenly felt too big for his chest, and he struggled to keep his breathing even as he realized that the Green Knight was heading towards Morgana.

Morgana had been mostly silent except for her heavy breathing, but at least she hadn't tried to twist away from Leon's blade or hurl a spell at him. For a while Merlin had felt her gaze on him, disbelief warring with helpless fury, but when he glanced at her now, she just looked lost and strangely small. Leon seemed reluctant to move away, but he withdrew his dagger and stepped back.

There was a long pause when the Green Knight stopped in front of her. Merlin could hear birds beginning to chirp in the distance, filling the hush with their tentative songs—they had probably realized that their lord was free once more, and were celebrating in the only way they knew. A slight breeze ruffled his hair and sifted through the grass, but it wasn't the sharp wind from before. It was like the forest was returning to its usual thriving life, filling the quietude with its sounds, unlike the unnatural void of silence that had covered the glade before.

Beneath the dirt, Morgana's face was even paler than normal, and she stared up at the Green Knight with a blank, hollow expression that couldn't summon the energy for contempt or anger anymore. Slowly, he moved to kneel in front of her, facing her eye to eye. His leather boots creaked with the movement, slow and unhurried as it was, and for a second Leon looked like he wanted to intervene, but then he stayed where he was.

For the first time, Merlin caught sight of the cold, terrible fury in the Green Knight's eyes, and he shuddered helplessly, wishing he had the strength of will to turn away. But he could only watch when the Green Knight reached out to cradle Morgana's face between his hands, an almost gentle gesture that made dread curl in Merlin's stomach.

"You," the Green Knight said, silkily, as his thumbs brushed Morgana's cheeks, "will curse the day you ever came to my forest."

Without warning, Morgana began to scream.

It was a shrill, discordant sound of absolute agony, spiraling up and up until Merlin thought her vocal chords would snap with the strain. The sound went through him like a knife, and he locked his knees to keep them from buckling, fighting the almost irrepressible urge to cover his ears. Morgana's head was flung back by the force of the shrieks that ripped their way out of her, but the Green Knight just went with the movement, keeping his light touch on her face. Behind Merlin, Arthur jerked back and then forward, his face chalk white, and Merlin's hand uselessly scrabbled down his arm.

But then Gwaine buried his fingers in the back of Arthur's shirt, and between the two of them they held him back, even though Arthur's quick, labored breathing sent little fissures of pain through Merlin's chest. He moved his hand until he could grab Arthur's wrist and held on for dear life, trying not to look up at the pale, horrified tightness of his face.

Morgana was writhing, thrashing in the Green Knight's deceptively gentle hold. Her eyes glowed with a brightness that was almost silver, and blood started to trickle from her nose, dripping into the hollow of her open mouth. Leon stared down at her in horror, but didn't move, and Merlin was grateful that he didn't—if he had touched her, he might have caught some of the backlash of whatever the Green Knight was doing to her. The very air seemed to twist and jerk around them, like it wanted to tear itself away from the sound of Morgana's agonized screams, and abruptly, Merlin couldn't watch anymore.

He turned around blindly, clutching at Arthur's shoulder for a moment to steady himself until the world refocused around him. "We have to go," he mumbled through numb lips, slurring the words in his panicked need to draw his attention away from Morgana's screams. He shook Arthur a little, not hard, not even enough to make him stumble. "Arthur, we have to go, _now_. The Mercian patrols—"

Behind him, Morgana's voice cut off with a gurgling, discordant sound. Over Arthur's shoulder, Merlin caught a glimpse of Gwaine's expression, torn between shock and slight disgust, and he whirled back around just in time to see Morgana's eyes roll back in her head. The Green Knight let her go, and she slumped to the ground in an unconscious heap, her matted hair obscuring her bloodied face.

But Merlin had seen her eyes for a second, and they were green again, devoid of the golden shards that had seemed permanently stuck there. He watched in mute, numb dread as the Green Knight stood and dusted off his hands as if he'd just taken care of some unpleasant business. His eyes were calm and untroubled, relieved almost, like he quietly savored the feeling of finally having taken his revenge.

"What—," Merlin started, hoarsely, suddenly feeling like he was going to be sick. Arthur's wrist jerked in his hold, but Merlin didn't let go. From the corner of his eye, Merlin saw Gwaine's other hand come up to hover above Arthur's shoulder, ready to restrain him if he broke and came at the Green Knight with flying fists.

The Green Knight's gaze flickered to Arthur, and the only reason why he didn't smile coldly was probably out of basic courtesy because Arthur was Morgana's brother. "I shattered her magic," he said simply, his voice even and factual. "I locked it away in that deep, dark place she calls her mind, and I hope that the world will never be bothered by it again."

Around them, the others were silent, though whether out of fear or simple numb surprise, Merlin didn't know. He swallowed convulsively, trying to force down the nausea that clawed through his guts at the thought, and was suddenly grateful for Arthur's solid presence although he could feel the tiny tremors that ran through him. It wasn't like he didn't think that Morgana had had it coming for forcing an ancient forest spirit under her control. But the mere _thought_ of what that must feel like, of having his own magic— _destroyed_ and locked away, just like that, still made him want to retch.

Somehow, it didn't help that the calculating fury had left the Green Knight's features by now, not when Morgana's still form didn't move save for the slight rise and fall of her shoulders. Merlin saw that her left hand was still half twisted into a claw, as though she'd fought desperately against the merciless, shredding storm of power that the Green Knight had unleashed in her mind. He suddenly remembered the way she'd fought against _his_ hold once upon a time, too, each breath a horrible, rattling dissonance that had echoed through the throne room. Bile rose in his throat, sour and stinging, and it was all he could do to keep it down.

There was movement at his right, and Merlin tore his gaze away from Morgana with some difficulty, only to see Lancelot approach them cautiously. His eyes were insistent and almost frightened when they met Merlin's, and Merlin struggled to summon a tired smile to show him that he was alright, despite how gaunt and exhausted he knew he looked. It didn't really work, because Lancelot was at his side in an instant, his dagger sheathed and hands extended, like he was prepared to catch him if he fell.

But then his gaze drifted to Arthur, and he winced slightly, obviously not wanting to intrude but knowing that it had to be done. "Merlin's right," he said, his voice hushed but insistent. "We have to go—who knows how close those Mercian soldiers are—"

Arthur's features twisted as if he was in pain, like he was shaken out of a long nightmare. He made a hesitant movement towards Morgana, as though even his feet couldn't decide whether to approach her, whether to shout at her or gently pick up her unconscious form, and Merlin wished, with a sudden, almost angry wave of fierce protectiveness, that they'd been alone.

He did his best to ignore the presence of the others, of Leon, Percival and Elyan all striding towards them now, insistence on their features as they eyed the treeline for any flashes of steel reflecting the sunlight. He put his hands on Arthur's shoulders, trying to catch Arthur's gaze although it kept skittering to Morgana's fallen form, drawn by an unhealthy magnetic pull, and pitched his voice low when he said, "Arthur, she'll get what she wanted if we just stand around here until the Mercians come."

Gwaine was politely staring over both of their heads in an uncharacteristic show of tact, trying to look like he wasn't listening, but he didn't let go of the back of Arthur's tunic either. Arthur finally focused on Merlin, still looking dazed and slightly horrified from hearing his sister's screams. But something in Merlin's expression must have roused him, because after a moment he swallowed hard, and a small spark of righteous anger lit up his eyes.

"She— you—," he sputtered, gesturing uselessly over Merlin's shoulder. Anger was good, or at least better than the stunned, helpless blankness from before, and Merlin tried to be relieved, although he still saw the fissure of hurt that lurked behind Arthur's gaze, a wound that had barely healed ever since their defeat of Cenred's immortal army.

"She killed our allies," Arthur hissed, and he seemed to cling to the furious, smoldering fire too, if only to help him tear his gaze away from his sister's fallen form, "she lured us all the way here through this hellhole of a forest—" Merlin all but heard the Green Knight frown in offense behind him, and he fought down an inappropriate hysterical laugh. It was reassuring to see Arthur rouse himself from his stupor, even with anger, and the relief that surged through him was almost strong enough to drown out everything else. "And you— you want me to just _run?_ "

"Nothing wrong with that," Gwaine muttered behind him, but they both ignored him.

"Arthur, _look_ at us," Merlin insisted, suddenly acutely aware of the gentle breeze that brushed through the clearing. His stomach lurched when he imagined the soldiers that were probably just minutes away from breaking through the treeline around them. "All of you are in your hunting gear, you don't even have your swords here, there's no way we'll get out of this alive if we stay to fight—"

Next to him, he saw Percival turn around abruptly, scanning their surroundings even as he slowly drew his dagger, and Elyan did the same even as Leon took a slow step to Arthur's other side, his watchful gaze never leaving the edge of the clearing. Somehow, it was that that scared Merlin even more, that even Camelot's seasoned warriors seemed wary and almost afraid. He swallowed hard against the surge of panic that tried to overwhelm him. "And if the Mercians see us, they'll report back to Bayard, and then what? The peace treaty—"

Arthur interrupted him by nodding once, jerkily, and blew out an irritated breath. He still didn't look convinced, but seemed willing to back down, if only for the sake of his men, and Merlin sagged a little in relief. His gaze flickered to Morgana again, and Merlin almost saw the thoughts running through his mind—a part of Arthur probably wanted to take her back with them despite everything she had done, but the larger, crueler part had no qualms about leaving her here, weak and unconscious on the ground.

Merlin waited, and the others waited with him in an unspoken agreement to keep their silence until Arthur found the strength to look away from his sister again. Merlin's heartbeat was a fast staccato in his ears, and he was sure he'd heard the forest creak warningly around them now as if heralding the arrival of Bayard's armed forces, but he didn't speak. He couldn't hurry Arthur along now, it wasn't his right to make this decision for him and pull him back from this brink.

The Green Knight stepped forward suddenly, his eyes urgent—Leon gave him a wary look, moving closer to Arthur's side, probably still haunted by what he had seen him do to Morgana. But the Green Knight was looking mostly at Merlin, although his gaze kept flickering over the rest of them too, if only to include them out of basic courtesy. "Emrys is right," he said. "You have to go, and go quickly. The soldiers have surrounded us," and here he drew himself up to his full height, fixing Merlin with an earnest, entreating look, "but I will detain them and see you to safety."

He smiled at the slightly incredulous looks that focused on him then; even Arthur frowned, shaken out of his stupor. It wasn't a particularly nice smile, Merlin thought hazily—it was full of glittering sharp teeth and green eyes that went possessive and, making him look feral.

"This forest is mine," the Green Knight said, his voice whisper-soft and silky, and the crown of ivy in his hair rustled as if in agreement. "Nothing moves here without my leave, and as long as this realm is under my protection, the once and future king's blood will not stain this ground."

Merlin all but felt Arthur's stare drill a hole into his back, since he'd clearly caught on to the fact that the man was referring to him. But Merlin found his gaze captured and held by the Green Knight's fathomless eyes, and he couldn't break the contact for a long, weightless moment, although his legs burned with the desire to bolt and propel them all away from danger. He had experienced first hand the ancient, primal power that had twined the Green Knight's soul with the land, but looking into his eyes still felt like standing at the edge of a precipice, too mesmerized by the depth he found there to step back.

The Green Knight lifted his hand, the gesture deliberately slow to avoid startling them, and sure enough, although Lancelot sucked in a sharp breath, nobody moved to stop him. Merlin held still when a callused thumb brushed his hair back from his forehead, like a blessing, or a benediction. A faraway echo of sharp, pure magic shivered through him, as old as the trees; but this time, it did not overwhelm him. It simply settled around him like a soft blanket, enveloping him in a cool, protective embrace.

"Safe passage, Emrys," the Green Knight said, softly now, and lowered his hand. For the first time, Merlin caught a whiff of his scent, a summery flavor of crushed grass and ancient bark, of rich soil soaked with the season's rain. His forehead felt refreshingly cool where he had brushed it, and Merlin caught himself almost swaying forward to chase the touch.

He blinked to clear his head, and the Green Knight's lips quirked in a smile, like he knew very well what his touch had felt like to Merlin. From the corner of his eye, Merlin saw that Leon's expression had lost most of its guardedness, and he was looking at the Green Knight with an uncertain kind of wonder, like he didn't quite know what to make of this.

He risked a look over his shoulder, and almost grinned when he saw that Arthur, on the other hand, sent the Green Knight a suspicious glare before giving Merlin a quick once-over as if to search for injuries. Merlin smiled distractedly when their eyes met, to show him that he was fine and that the Green Knight's touch hadn't done anything to him, although he was still a little dizzy.

A branch cracked somewhere in the forest, and the Green Knight's head whipped around as if he'd been struck. As one, the others turned back to the treeline, shaken out of the strange interlude, and Merlin's eyes roamed the mingled greens and browns of the woods around them, but he couldn't see or hear anything, no flashes of silver chainmail and no tell-tale scrape of unsheathed swords. An uneasy twinge went through his stomach as he thought of the multitude of eyes that might be watching them right now, hidden by the leaves.

"Fly," the Green Knight whispered, almost to himself, but then he abruptly whirled around, his hair in wild disarray even as the ivy seemed to gleam brighter. He could see what Merlin and the others couldn't, he felt every footstep of the Mercians who trespassed in his realm, and his voice rose to a ringing shout that echoed across the glade. "Fly! The enemy is upon you! _Fly!_ "

For a moment, Merlin couldn't move, his feet rooted to the ground even as his heartbeat sped up with the rush of tension that went through him. He stared at the Green Knight, whose axe had sprung into his hand as though it possessed a life of its own, and he wanted to ask how he could even dream of standing up to half an army by himself, forest spirit or no.

But then Arthur's hand closed around his upper arm and yanked him backwards even as Lancelot shoved at his other shoulder, and then they were off, tripping over roots and leaving an all too visible stretch of flattened grass in their wake as they ran towards the trees.

 

  


 

Hoofbeats drummed on the mossy ground and his pulse thundered in his ears, but as they raced through the forest as if chased by hellhounds, Gwaine couldn't help the mad, exhilarated grin that spread across his features.

All around them, the forest was changing. Bushes shrank back to make room for their cantering horses, retreating into gaps between suspiciously flexible, helpful trees. Low-hanging branches bent out of their way, and a shapeless, roaring blast of wind seemed to race ahead of them, tearing leaves from the trees and shaking their rustling crowns until they undulated like green waves in the sunlight.

They had skidded down the hill to find their horses exactly where they'd left them. The doe had been nowhere in sight, but a new sandy path wound away through the trees for them, the sturdy yet yielding ground perfect for a prolonged canter. And when they had mounted hastily, the wind started up, a whistling, insistent gale that seemed to want to hurry them along even as it cleared the way for them, alerting the forest to their passage.

Ahead of him, Arthur was ducked low over Llamrei's flying dark mane, almost disappearing in the cloud of dust and dried mud that her hooves kicked up. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine could see Merlin cling to his horse for all he was worth, bouncing around on its back as he fought to hold on. But the horse didn't seem to mind the clumsiness of its inexperienced rider—it probably sensed the insistence in the air, because it ignored Merlin's feeble attempts to urge it forward. Eyes firmly fixed on Llamrei's flying tail for guidance, it just put its head down and ran.

Whenever Gwaine chanced a look over his shoulder, he saw the forest closing up behind them, huge oaks shuddering as their roots dragged them just a couple of steps to the side, just enough to obscure their path. Blades of grass shot from the ground to hide the hoof prints, and all around them the woods were waking, with a roaring, rumbling shudder that reverberated through his bones.

The Green Knight had promised to hold off the Mercians, and right then, racing through the forest with his hair whipping around his face, Gwaine knew that the soldiers were in for an uneven fight. With all of his power belonging to him once more, the Green Knight would call for his servants to chase the intruders from his lands. He would have the very earth to aid him, the skies at his disposal to rain down destruction on Morgana's patrols, and Gwaine could all but see the large black hunting dogs, their golden eyes glinting with eager, predatory glee as they raced to meet their master.

The path rounded a sudden bend, and Gwaine felt Gryngolet's muscles tremble with tension between his knees as the great stallion fought not to lose any speed as he threw his weight to the side. Two pine trees bent out of the way with a labored creak of bark, stretching their branches at an unhealthy angle to avoid whipping them in the face, and Gryngolet effortlessly jumped through the gap after Llamrei.

He heard Merlin's startled yelp behind him as his horse jumped after the white stallion, and an ominous, stunned silence behind them as the others caught sight of the accommodating pines. Gwaine looked over his shoulder just in time to see Leon's horse squeeze itself through the gap, dragging the two packhorses behind him, and then the trees whipped back into their original position with a relieved shudder of their bark.

"Are you doing that, Merlin?" Percival shouted from behind them, sounding torn between stunned awe and something else, something that Gwaine couldn't quite place—it wasn't fear, not even close, but more like caution.

"No," Merlin shouted back, and when Gwaine glanced at him, he looked equal parts worried and confused, like he didn't know what to make of Percival's tone either. In spite of the exhilarated energy that rushed through his veins, Gwaine felt a stirring of protectiveness. If Percival so much as looked at Merlin differently, now that he knew about his magic— but no, Gwaine thought, the tall knight wouldn't do that, and besides, they had other things to worry about right now.

Through the rushing whistle of air in his ears, Gwaine heard the rough caws and the fierce, shrill cries before he even saw the birds. He had long since given up steering Gryngolet's explosive energy anywhere, since the stallion seemed exhilarated at the chance to run for all he was worth after months of slow traveling. And so he allowed himself to tilt his head back and look up through the branches above them, through the storm of tumbling leaves that the wind had torn free.

Black and brown silhouettes flitted past the sun, and it took Gwaine a moment to recognize the hawks and ravens that flew eastwards to the Chapel, following the beckoning call that ripped through the woods like a contained storm. _Come_ , the trees whispered as they rushed past in a blur, in a voice like rustling leaves. _By the wind beneath your wings, I bid you come_ , and Gwaine couldn't help the short, exhilarated laugh that burst out of him. Yes, the Mercians wouldn't know what hit them.

Ahead of him, Arthur seemed to slow Llamrei for a moment, reining her in for a more controlled canter than the reckless, breakneck run from before. Even with his back turned to him, Gwaine saw the prince hesitate, but then he urged his mare to pursue a thin, overgrown trail to their left.

"To Grænn's house!" Arthur called back over his shoulder. Just as surprised as his rider by the sudden change of direction, Gryngolet nearly barreled into a tree in his haste to follow Llamrei—Gwaine gritted his teeth and clung to the saddle for dear life, feeling his horse shift underneath him. The stallion stumbled and almost fell, throwing his great weight to the side to avoid the tree, and hurled himself along on the path that Llamrei had taken.

"What?!" Merlin shouted, voice rising an octave when his horse almost bumped into Gryngolet's rear and the stallion jumped forward with an indignant snort. "Arthur—"

"Ragnelle!" Arthur yelled back, his voice muffled by the trees—he was clearly not going to let Merlin argue with him about this. "We can't just leave her there!"

Gryngolet's hooves kicked up a spray of mud as he skidded through a puddle and found his footing again, and a moment later, he was smoothly cantering along behind Llamrei once more. Gwaine ducked low over his neck, letting the white mane whip into his face, and barely suppressed a stir of guilt.

He had been so preoccupied with everything that had happened today—his own challenge, and whatever brightly glowing magical thing Merlin had done to free the Green Knight—that he had outright forgotten about her. He wondered if the unearthing shudders of the waking forest reached as far as Grænn's mansion. The two of them must be quite scared if they could hear the groaning of bark and the faint trembling of the earth beneath their home.

They rode in silence until their surroundings started to look vaguely familiar. Gwaine thought he recognized the thinning woods and the numerous birches, and before long, they broke through the treeline overlooking Grænn's small valley.

Shock made Gwaine pull on Gryngolet's reins until the stallion tossed his head in discomfort, but he wasn't the only one—ahead of him, Arthur had already slowed Llamrei to a trot, and they exchanged a stunned glance when Gwaine rode up beside him. As one, they resumed staring at the spectacle in front of them, and Gwaine barely heard Merlin's startled gasp behind him.

The mansion had always been beset with greens, moss growing in between the cracks in the masonry and tangled vines climbing up the walls between the windows. But now, it looked just like the houses of the dead noblemen they had seen during the past few weeks. Ivy covered the walls as if it had always been there, big, dark green leaves swaying lazily in a slight breeze. It engulfed the house like a rustling cloak, leaving only the windows uncovered, small panes of glass amidst a sea of green that glinted in the sunlight.

Nobody spoke when they rode up to the house, and apprehension mingled with the confusion that stirred in Gwaine's gut. For a moment, he wondered if Grænn had been another noble to kill on the Green Knight's agenda—but even if that had been the case, he surely would have mentioned something to them during their three-day stay. Not once had Grænn told them that he'd been challenged to a beheading game by a strange visitor, no matter how jovial and friendly their dinner conversations had been.

By an unspoken agreement, they spread out into a loose half-circle before they dismounted, and Gwaine had his hand on his dagger before he could second-guess his own wariness. The sight before him made no sense at all—there was no reason for the house to be overgrown with ivy. He had no idea why he was so sure about it, but he just _knew_ that Grænn hadn't been one of those unfortunate men who had accepted the Green Knight's challenge without truly thinking about its implications.

Merlin shakily climbed off his horse and ended up sprawled on the ground. Even from a distance, Gwaine could see the slight tremble in his legs as he tugged himself upright on the saddle again—along with whatever magic he'd done at the Chapel, the short, hard ride must have exhausted him. But before Gwaine could step over to him and ask him if he was alright, Arthur beat him to it.

He helped Merlin up, his gaze flickering back and forth between his manservant and the mansion. Gwaine noticed that he wasn't quite as deathly pale as he'd been in the clearing anymore; the rush of their flight had pushed some color back into his cheeks. But he still looked tense, every nerve strung tight as a bowstring ready to fire.

"Merlin," Arthur said in a hushed voice, most likely not wanting to alert the attention of whoever—or whatever—was still in the house. The front door was slightly ajar, like someone had left the mansion seconds before the ivy had grown. "Merlin, are you—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Merlin hastened to reply, sounding a bit shaken, but more or less steady. He gave Arthur a strained, reassuring smile when he pushed himself away from his horse, stumbling only slightly when his wobbly legs suddenly had to support all of his weight. "I don't know what he did exactly, but— in the clearing, the Green Knight gave something to me that protects my mind."

Gwaine blinked at them in confusion, not quite understanding the implications of that. Arthur seemed pacified, though; he nodded tensely and stepped back, giving Merlin his space, but staying close enough to support him if he fell. If they hadn't been in front of a probably deserted, ivy-covered house, Gwaine might have walked over to them and asked what Merlin's mind needed to be protected from. But as it was, he just watched when Merlin looked up at the sprawling green with a shiver, and even though Gwaine didn't have a magical bone in his body, he could guess at the waves of power that probably rolled off the walls.

Something creaked from above, a rattling, alien sound that didn't come from the forest, and Gwaine's head jerked up on its own accord. One of the windows on the first floor was moving, pulled inwards by an unseen hand. He had to squint against the reflected flash of sunlight for a moment, but even then, he wasn't even all that surprised to see Ragnelle's head poking out of the gap in the ivy.

Ragnelle, on the other hand, did seem surprised. She jerked back a little at first, like she hadn't expected to see her husband's guests all lined up in front of the house, and blinked down at them in confusion. There was wariness in her eyes, and maybe a bit of fear—it was as if she expected them to ask her what in the hell had happened to her house, while she knew that she didn't have an answer.

"We just came to check on you," Arthur called up to her, obviously trying to sound reassuring—he had picked up on the note of anxiety as well. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course, I—," Ragnelle began, but broke off once more, her puzzled gaze traveling from Arthur to the others and back. It seemed to rest on someone beside him for a moment, and for the first time, Gwaine noticed that Percival had stepped forward and looked ready to squeeze his tall form through the tangled twines that guarded the open door. "I— what are you _doing_ here?"

"Just stay where you are, we'll come in and get you," Arthur replied, and Gwaine almost laughed at his tone—he sounded so placating, like he thought that Ragnelle was still suffering from the shock that must have gripped her when the entire house had suddenly been engulfed by magical greenery.

Like he'd just waited for Arthur's words, Percival moved towards the door and unsheathed his dagger, and Gwaine felt a stir of apprehension as he watched him eye the ivy like he was seizing up an opponent. He had no idea what would happen if Percival attacked the green twines with his weapon, but he had a feeling that he didn't want to know.

Ragnelle craned her neck to watch Percival, looking just as worried as Gwaine felt. "What?" she muttered to herself, sounding puzzled, but then sudden comprehension dawned on her features. She seemed to realize that they had just come to rescue her, and weren't going to ask any questions about the house just yet.

Determination replaced the anxiety on her pale features when she shook her head, waving Percival back before he could take a step further. For a moment she bent down, and Gwaine knew that she had hoisted up her skirts when her face reappeared amidst the swaying sea of leaves. "Don't be ridiculous, I can climb down."

And she moved to do just that, swinging herself out of the window with a surprising agility that looked quite at odds with the stiff gracelessness that Gwaine had become used to seeing from her. Her hands found just the right tangles and sturdy leaves to hold on to, and her feet settled securely into little cracks and gaps within the masonry. Within just a minute, she had reached a window sill on the ground floor, and tested its solidness with her feet before she pushed herself away from the wall and landed amidst the swaying grass in a crouch.

Gwaine realized that his mouth was slightly open, and hurried to close it when Ragnelle straightened up and dusted off her skirt like she climbed down walls every day. She stepped towards them, looking guarded, as if she still had no idea what they wanted from her, now that she'd gotten out of the house. She gave Percival a quick, unreadable look before her eyes came to rest on Gwaine, and for a moment, her gaze seemed to linger on the cut in his neck. For the first time, Gwaine realized with a start that his shirt was still gaping open from the cut of the Green Knight's axe, exposing the girdle that was still wound around his stomach.

"Where's Grænn?" he asked, not really because he was wondering about their former host's whereabouts, but mostly to distract her. Unease crawled down his spine when her eyes stayed on the girdle for a moment longer, and with a sudden, sick feeling, he wondered if she knew—if she knew that while his life had been spared, he had still been dishonest.

Ragnelle just blinked at him for a moment, her confusion firmly back in place. "Gone," she said, like she'd expected him to have figured that out by himself, but then her eyes widened and, for some reason, darted from Gwaine to Merlin and back. "Wait, you— you don't _know_ who he was?"

"We didn't get the chance to tell everyone yet," Merlin put in, cutting Gwaine off before he could inquire further. He was once again paler than normal when Gwaine looked at him, and he kept glancing into the trees like he feared that a bunch of stray soldiers would break out of the woods at any moment. "Can we _please_ talk about this later—"

"Of course," Arthur interrupted decisively, shaking his head like he had to remind himself that no matter how calm and untroubled the forest around Grænn's house seemed, they still wouldn't be out of danger until they were back in the Northern Plains.

He turned to Ragnelle, and Gwaine only saw the hasty urgency in his eyes because he knew it was there—his features were schooled into an expression of reassuring politeness. "Don't be scared. We're going to take you home."

"I'm not scared," Ragnelle replied blankly, but still allowed Arthur to steer her towards one of the packhorses with a gentle grip on her elbow.

She still seemed bewildered half an hour later, when they were riding beneath a canopy of leaves once more. The forest had mostly calmed around them, the trees now standing stock still along the path like silent guardians. Aside from occasional sharp gusts of wind, the woods weren't urging them on anymore, but Gwaine thought he heard a faint rumbling from the east, like the ominous gathering of a faraway thunderstorm. Even up on Gryngolet's back, he could feel the tiny shudders that rippled through the ground once in a while, and he didn't really want to think about the kind of earthquakes that the Green Knight was probably creating to keep away their pursuers.

They rode in tense silence, and Gwaine could practically feel Ragnelle's puzzled gaze on his back where she rode along on the packhorse, which had been relieved of most of its burden to accommodate her weight. Arthur had urged them into a quick trot, although Gwaine could tell just from the tense set of his shoulders that he wanted to go faster, but only refrained from returning to their previous breakneck canter for fear of intimidating Ragnelle. Sure, she didn't seem particularly scared just now, but Gwaine knew that she might panic when she learned that the only thing that stood between them and the Mercian soldiers was an ancient forest spirit's protection.

The sky darkened above them, huge, rain-laden gray clouds speeding off into the east with unnatural speed. Llamrei's trot got gradually faster until she kept breaking into a canter to accommodate her rider's urgency, and Gwaine saw Gryngolet's ears flatten again and again as he picked up on the shift in the atmosphere. As calm as Merlin's horse usually was, now it kept tossing its head hard enough to tear the reins from his grip—the horses clearly felt the supernatural storm that was gathering behind them.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" Ragnelle asked eventually, her voice a bit timid, like she wasn't sure if any of the grim-faced knights would answer. Branches cracked around them, and from the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw Merlin twitch whenever the sound of creaking bark broke the hush. Although he wilted slightly in his saddle, he kept darting quick glances around them, as though he was preparing to protect them if any soldiers broke through the trees.

There was a short, tense silence, only interrupted by the hoofbeats, until Arthur let out an impatient sigh ahead of Gwaine, like he didn't really want to tell her the truth, but knew he had to. "Mercian soldiers," he said curtly, still reluctant to divulge that much information, although he did try not to sound as tense as he felt, probably in an effort to keep her from panicking. "We're trying to get out of the forest before they find us."

He didn't elaborate on what the consequences would be if they were indeed found in these parts. But judging from the way Ragnelle gasped in surprise, he didn't need to. "What?" she exclaimed, loudly enough for a flock of birds to take flight from a nearby tree.

When Gwaine turned around in his saddle, he saw that she had stopped the packhorse with a decisive yank on the reins; behind her, Leon, Lancelot and Elyan quickly stopped their horses as well to avoid bumping into her. She stared around at the knights, her incredulous gaze skimming all of them. "Are you _mad?_ What are you carting me around for, then? Stop wasting your time with me and get _out_ of Mercia!"

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, disbelief written across his features. Ragnelle waved his confusion away, and Gwaine suddenly thought that the impatient, almost irritated spark in her eyes suited her far better than the awkward discomfort he had felt rolling off of her during those three days they had spent together. "I know you're from Camelot," she said impatiently, almost glaring at Arthur by now. "If the soldiers find you— I can't believe you even came back to the mansion for me, you should have just fled! I could have found my way home by myself!"

Nobody seemed to want to tell her that basic courtesy had simply demanded them to go back to Grænn's house and check on her. Arthur shifted in his saddle, a trifle uneasy, and finally offered, "We wanted to make sure you get back to Torpelei safely."

Ragnelle just stared at him, unimpressed, and didn't even ask how he knew where she was from. The urgency hadn't left her eyes, and Gwaine thought she looked almost angry that they were standing around in the forest and looking at her, instead of fleeing. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she demanded, _snapped_ almost, but then something occurred to her and she leaned forward in her saddle, making as if to slide down to the ground. "Right, your packhorse—"

"No, no, keep the horse," Arthur cut in hastily, looking relieved that he could do at least that much for her, now that she'd made it quite clear that she wasn't going to let them escort her back to Torpelei. In any other situation, Gwaine might have laughed at the expression on the prince's face—he seemed completely out of his depth, like he had no idea what to do with a woman who outright refused his protection.

"Will you and Erik be alright?" Merlin suddenly interrupted, a worried frown creasing his forehead. Gwaine glanced at him in surprise, and couldn't help but admire his friend's quick thinking. With everything that had happened today, Ragnelle's brother was just about the farthest thing from his mind right now, even though they had originally promised him to look out for his sister.

For a moment, Ragnelle looked like she wanted to throw up her hands in sheer exasperation. " _Yes_ ," she said, torn between impatience and incredulity, like she couldn't believe that they were wasting their time worrying about her when there were Mercian patrols to run away from. "We'll be alright, I'll think about what you said to me at Grænn's house—," Gwaine blinked at that, looking at Merlin, but Merlin didn't notice the inquisitive gazes that were suddenly turned on him.

" _Go!_ " she insisted, steering the packhorse off the path and into the high grass to make room for them to urge their horses back into a canter. "I promise I can find my way home alone, and if I meet any soldiers along the way I'll tell them I've never even heard of Camelot's crown prince—just go, quickly!"

That seemed all Arthur needed to come to a decision—he gave her a curt, somewhat relieved nod, and finally loosened Llamrei's reins. The mare immediately darted forward a few steps, glad to find an outlet for her nervousness. It couldn't have been all that reassuring to stand still while a magical thunderstorm was brewing in the east and her sensitive ears could hear patrols crawling through the forest around them.

Gryngolet broke into a light trot without prompting, and only sped up when his rider pressed encouraging heels to his flanks. Still, Gwaine didn't miss the way Percival's gaze lingered on Ragnelle for a long moment before he urged his horse onwards as well. She stared back at him in silence, her uneven features pinched and aloof, like she didn't want to react to whatever she saw in his gaze. But there was something undefinable in her eyes, a glimmer of something bewildered and vaguely hopeful that she couldn't suppress, no matter how calm and collected she tried to be in the face of the obvious concern in Percival's expression.

When Percival rode past Gwaine, Merlin's horse had already darted after Llamrei, apparently just as eager to resume their mad race for safety. Abruptly deciding that now was not the time to tease his fellow knight, Gwaine turned back around in his saddle and ducked low over Gryngolet's back to give him the chance to stretch his legs a bit.

Soon enough, the stallion's hoofbeats settled back into the fast, rhythmic canter they had kept up earlier. Percival was silent beside him, although Gwaine saw his gaze dart backwards once more, and Ragnelle disappeared behind a bend in the path.

 

  


 

They reached the edge of the forest by nightfall, crossing the Mercian border back into the Northern Plains, and Arthur couldn't help but think of how thoroughly lost they must have been before, when they'd ridden through the forest for nearly two weeks, whereas they had reached its edge within mere hours now.

But well, they hadn't had the Green Knight's support back then. He had probably picked out the fastest route for them, just as set on getting them out of Mercia as they were on escaping the patrols. And they _had_ escaped, if only by a hair's breadth. Time and time again, Arthur had thought he'd caught glimpses of silver through the trees, flashes of sunlight glinting on armor—but not a single soldier had stepped out into the path to stop them. The trees had seemed to grow thicker and thicker around them, shielding them from sight as they raced towards safety, and the forest eradicated all traces of their passage behind them, like waves reclaiming a long-lost shore.

Next to him, Gwaine tumbled off Gryngolet's back with an undignified groan, collapsing on the ground in a heap. He leaned his head back against his horse's shoulder and let out a long sigh, simply glad to be back on solid ground once more, and the stallion seemed to pick up on his mood, because he didn't step on Gwaine's hand where his fingers were idly sifting through the grass.

Still, not everyone shared Gwaine's relief. Leon urged his horse forward to look out at the unfamiliar field that sprawled out in front of them in the dimming light, his gaze sharp and alert in spite of the tired slump of his back. "Did we cross the border?" he said, more to himself than to the others, and narrowed his eyes as he scanned the horizon in search of any village or settlement that might look familiar. "We're not near Cogeltone anymore, though, are we?"

Arthur responded by sliding off Llamrei's back, grimacing only slightly when his feet touched the ground. Even his legs were sore after a day of reckless riding. He rummaged around in his saddlebag and produced the map, walking over to Leon while he unfolded it, and Leon dismounted as well.

They pored over the map for a moment, talking quietly and searching for any hills or other landmarks that could have told them where they were. The fields didn't look as well-tended as Cogeltone's surroundings had, and they didn't see any hint of civilization on the horizon, no trails of smoke in the evening sky that pointed to a village. In front of them, the grassy slope led down to a valley. But no matter how hard Arthur squinted against the setting sun, he couldn't make out any houses, not even glittering rivers that they might have found on their map as well.

By an unspoken agreement, the others began to set up camp while Arthur and Leon were preoccupied with the map. Lancelot and Elyan ducked back beneath the trees to collect some firewood, glancing around warily all the while. Gwaine dragged himself back up to a standing position with some difficulty, but his hands were quick and efficient when he made short work of Gryngolet's saddle and bridle and moved on to tend to Llamrei next.

It was a struggle to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the map and not let his gaze stray towards Merlin, who looked more gaunt and tired every minute, but was still doing his best to help Percival unload their supplies from the remaining packhorse's back. Arthur couldn't hear their quiet conversation from this distance, but Percival seemed to try to convince Merlin to just sit down for a while and let him do the work. Eventually, he managed to crowd Merlin back enough to gently coax him into sitting down on a mossy, fallen log. Arthur suppressed a smile and turned his attention back to the map, a little of the tension easing out of his shoulders.

"Well," Leon said at last, staring down at the map with a mildly offended expression, like he hadn't thought it would ever fail them. He tugged it out of Arthur's grip and folded it, with a presumptuousness that would have gotten him a quizzical look and a raised eyebrow in any other situation, but now, Arthur just let it happen.

He blinked up at Leon when the taller knight's eyes focused on him, earnest and almost entreating. "I suggest we just rest for now, sire. We can figure out where we are tomorrow."

The words needed a long moment to trickle through the vague fog that had settled into Arthur's mind, but finally he nodded. Leon had sounded cautious, like even now, he was trying to spare Arthur's pride by not calling him out on how exhausted he probably looked. He mustered up a smile for his knight's quiet thoughtfulness, and Leon readily smiled back, seeming relieved that Arthur hadn't argued with him.

Despite the fatigue that weighed down his muscles, Arthur moved to help Lancelot and Elyan when they returned with armfuls of firewood, glad for the chance to do something. Before long, a fire crackled merrily amidst the grass, and they all crowded around it, keeping the dancing flames between themselves and the forest.

Percival and Gwaine had already spread out their bedrolls in a half-circle, but they all settled down on the log instead. The firelight reflected in Merlin's eyes when he looked up just in time to see Arthur sit down next to him, but he already looked a bit better, color slowly returning to his cheeks.

They finished off most of their remaining field rations, but after their flight, nobody wanted to venture into the forest again to hunt. Arthur had to force himself to choke down the first thick slice of bread, but then his stomach started rumbling with hunger, like it suddenly remembered that none of them had eaten since they'd ridden out to find the Green Chapel in the morning.

The dried fruit already tasted way better, but he fought to rein in his hunger, although he was well aware that nobody would have said anything if he'd eaten more. But next to him, Merlin seemed to experience the same shift from indifference to a sudden, ravenous need for food. Mouth full of cheese, he leaned forward to take one of the waterskins, and didn't even have to steady himself with a hand on the log when he shifted back.

He could see that the food did wonders for Merlin's sapped energy, straightening his posture and kindling a gleam of renewed awareness in his eyes. Arthur sneaked a gleaming red apple into his lap when he wasn't looking, and didn't second-guess the relief that coursed through him at the sound of Merlin's first crunching bite.

Later, when they'd all eaten their fill and were mostly lounging back on the log, too tired after the long day to keep up a conversation, Arthur declared that he would take the first watch.

Ignoring the scandalized glare that Merlin shot him, Arthur herded the others off to their bedrolls, pretending not to hear Leon's objections or Gwaine's appreciative comments about how a sovereign lord should always put his knights first. They all needed their sleep, and Arthur's limbs felt just as sore and heavy after a day spent racing through the forest, but somehow he didn't want to go to sleep just yet. It wasn't that he didn't trust any of the others to watch over their sleep, but just now, he felt more comfortable taking on that duty himself.

It was a sign of how tired they all were that even Leon's protests trailed off to an unintelligible murmur as soon as he caught sight of his bedroll. When all of them had settled down, the other knight rose up on his elbows in his nest of blankets just for long enough to tell Arthur to wake him in time for the next watch. Then Leon flopped back down like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and went to sleep almost instantly, if the deep, rasping breaths from his general direction were anything to go by.

Arthur suppressed a tired smile as he settled more comfortably on the log, taking out his daggers to line them up next to himself as he'd always done on his watches, just for something to keep his mind alert. The dancing flames made the steel look golden, and Arthur weighed the short throwing knife in his palm as he took the whetstone from his pouch.

None of the daggers had been used much during their quest—not in defense against bandits or other foes, at least. Mostly, the blades had just served to skin and cut up the various game they'd hunted. Now that the end of their journey was coming closer and closer, Arthur found it almost ironic that the daggers had originally just been part of their disguise. Their group had been supposed to look like an ordinary hunting party, and in the end, hunting was all they had done during the past month.

It was surreal to think of, that they had only been gone from Camelot for little more than five weeks. It felt like much longer, especially with all those days of aimlessly traipsing around in the forest before they'd been herded off to Grænn's mansion. Or well, the Green Knight's mansion, Arthur amended—although he still didn't quite understand what purpose that short interlude had served.

And now the whole adventure was supposed to be over, just like that, with no grand battle and no fanfares to herald his heroic return to what would one day be his kingdom. Arthur snorted mirthlessly and ran his thumbnail along the short blade in search of flaws. Just then, sitting on a mossy log and watching over his companions' sleep, Arthur didn't feel very heroic. All he had _done_ , when he'd finally found and confronted Morgana, was run away.

Well, there might still be an adventure of a different kind in store for him when they returned to Camelot. Arthur found himself frowning, his nail catching on a tiny nick, and he lifted the knife to examine the flaw from a closer angle. It was strange to think of everything else now—of finding the squires, of the fact that they would send word to his father if they weren't back soon—when they had just barely escaped the Mercian soldiers.

They had about two weeks left, Arthur thought, as he slowly ran the whetstone down the gleaming metal. First they would have to find Gaheris and Dagonet, and then send a messenger racing back to the citadel to assure his father that they were alright and would return soon, and even _that_ seemed difficult. He glanced up at the black, looming treeline—hopefully they would encounter a village tomorrow, or at least a stray traveler who could tell them where they were.

And somewhere along the line, Arthur thought sourly with a vicious screech of stone on metal, he would have to figure out what to tell the king. It seemed impossible enough to report to him that the Green Knight—the same forest spirit who had haunted Camelot a year into the Great Purge—was responsible for the deaths of the noblemen. But Arthur didn't even want to think of what his father's reaction would be if Arthur revealed to him that Morgana had sent him.

The whetstone stilled on the blade, but Arthur didn't notice the tired inaction of his hands. He stared sightlessly into the fire, the dancing flames leaving bright afterimages, and tried to steer his thoughts away from the numb stupor that had held Uther's mind in its death grip for so long. Maybe he would erupt into thoughtless rage if he learned of Morgana's involvement in the whole thing. But he might just retreat further into himself and go to a place where even Arthur would not be able to reach him anymore, roaming the echoing halls of his castle like a ghost.

There was a rustling noise behind him, followed by a crack of snapping twigs. Moss and springy grass muffled the sound of footsteps, and Arthur wasn't even surprised when Merlin suddenly appeared next to him, so busy stifling a huge yawn that he tripped over the log and almost careened headfirst into the fire.

Merlin plopped down on the log next to him, closer than he would have dared if any of the others had been awake. He shivered a little in the cold night air, stretching his hands towards the fire even as he huddled closer to Arthur for warmth. Their thighs and arms pressed together in a snug, warm line, and the tiny tremors that ran through Merlin's muscles stilled almost right away. He sighed happily, like sitting next to Arthur on a log looking sleep-deprived was all he'd wanted to do tonight.

Arthur sighed deeply, and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache he felt coming. Anyone else would have realized that he needed to think, _alone_ , when he had offered to take the first watch, but of course the hint had sailed right past his manservant's enormous ears. As it was, he resolutely resumed sharpening his knife, and inquired, "Don't you ever sleep?"

"Not right now I don't," Merlin pointed out reasonably, stifling another yawn with his palm, but his eyes were clear and alert when he looked at Arthur, taking in his posture—there was probably a defeated slump in his shoulders, Arthur thought vaguely, but didn't have the heart to straighten up now that Merlin was watching. "Are you alright?"

He wanted to snap at Merlin to stop asking redundant questions and go back to sleep—he even wanted to say yes, he really did, but somehow even that single word wouldn't come out. Annoyed with himself, Arthur settled for staring at the dancing flames that were reflected by the polished steel in his hands. "Right," Merlin said after a moment, and stretched languidly like a cat to shake himself more awake, clearly thinking that Arthur required his full attention. "Stupid question."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched on its own accord, but he didn't reply, and the silence that settled over them like a comforting blanket didn't need breaking anyway. It was surprisingly peaceful, and the small spark of indignation that had risen in him when his solitude had been disrupted already died down again.

He wanted to ask Merlin if _he_ was alright, if he had recovered from the assault of the forest's magic—but somehow, he could picture the guileless, innocent look Merlin would give him if Arthur tried to talk to him about what he'd done. The thought almost made Arthur scoff. Sure, he didn't know much about magic, but what he _did_ know was that it had been a close call for Merlin today. He still remembered the scared, apologetic look Merlin had given him in the glade when he'd let go of the ivy leaf. And, Arthur thought with a shiver, the bright, raw storm of primal magic that had engulfed the lithe form of his manservant wasn't anything he thought he would ever forget.

Still, even Merlin's silence told him that he had his mind set on talking about _Arthur's_ well-being now, not his own. Arthur sighed, leaning away from Merlin for a moment to retrieve one of his bigger knives in the hope that it would need sharpening. He could always just order his manservant back to his bedroll, but he was too tired to deal with the bickering match that would ensue. And he was surprised how peaceful it felt to just sit in silence with Merlin's body heat slowly seeping through their clothes and mingling with Arthur's own.

Next to him, Merlin hummed thoughtfully, like Arthur's persistent silence had been answer enough to his earlier question. He took a deep breath, bracing himself—for the backlash of what he was about to say, Arthur thought, and felt himself tensing—and asked, quietly, "Would you feel different now if the Green Knight had killed Morgana?"

The whetstone slipped on the longer dagger, and he only just halted the flinch of his hands before the blade could embed itself in his palm. He jerked back to stare at Merlin, a sick sense of shock washing through him at the blunt words. The image of his sister's fallen form flashed through his mind, and he didn't even think about the words when they burst out of him, perhaps more defensively than they would have been if he'd allowed himself to think. "I don't want her to _die!_ "

"But you want her to pay," Merlin said smoothly, not looking surprised at Arthur's reaction. His eyes held none of the righteous anger that Arthur had thought he felt towards Morgana. It was like he was keeping a tight leash on his own reactions, holding them back to leave Arthur enough room to sort out his own.

"I—" Arthur broke off, carelessly dropping dagger and whetstone in his lap to run his fingers through his hair. "It's not—" Merlin just watched him, his stare calm but adamant, like he would sit there until dawn if it took that long for Arthur to answer, and so he finally blurted out a frustrated, " _Yes_ , but—"

"No buts, Arthur," Merlin countered, effortlessly cutting through the tumult of thoughts in Arthur's mind. Arthur stared at him in disbelief—it wasn't even that he'd just been silenced by his manservant that startled him; after the three years he'd known Merlin, he was kind of used to that.

It was the look in Merlin's eyes that made him pause, because _now_ the spark he hadn't seen before was there, a smoldering burn of slow fury that looked like it had been building up for far longer than Arthur knew. His features were hard and unforgiving, and for a second Arthur thought he looked taller, his back straighter, his eyes golden with something more than the firelight.

"She would have seen you _dead_ ," Merlin said, with a quiet, vicious anger that sent an involuntary shiver down Arthur's spine, "killed by Mercian soldiers for her revenge on your father. Have you forgotten how readily she once took the crown— _your_ crown?"

"I remember, thanks," Arthur snapped back, irritation coming to his aid. For some reason, the memory of Morgana stealing Arthur's birthright from him seemed to ignite Merlin even more, and Arthur almost thought he felt a crackle in the air around them, a shivering pulse of magic that must be still close to the surface for Merlin, after what he'd done in the forest.

Waving away the little flash of contrition that flitted through Merlin's eyes, Arthur took a deep breath. "I know I should want her gone," he said, forcing down the knot of conflicting, cutting emotions that pulled tight in his chest, and he was glad when his voice remained mostly steady. "I know I should chase her to the edge of the earth for everything she's done—"

He broke off when the enormity of his own words hit him, and felt himself grow cold all over. He knew all the possible ends to that sentence, and shied away from all of them, because something was making his throat close up, the same choking, betrayed sense of bewilderment that had gripped him when he'd first seen the gleaming crown on Morgana's head all those months ago.

He should _want_ her dead, hell, he should want to kill her himself, just for what she'd done to his— _their_ father. The journey had come to an abrupt almost-end, but nothing was resolved. Morgana was still out there, unconscious and mad and bereft of her magic, but _alive_ , and as long as she still breathed, Arthur should have felt mad with the desire to hunt her down like a dog. But he couldn't.

"She's your sister," Merlin finished for him, with a little mirthless smile like he knew exactly what thoughts were running through Arthur's head. "And you can't hate her."

The fight went out of Arthur like Merlin's words had cut the last string that tied him. He nodded; there was nothing else to do. Hatred was something that feasted on infected wounds like sickly yellow pus, and with the memory of an entire _life_ with Morgana stretching out behind him like a winding road, Arthur couldn't summon the energy to let it fester.

And even at the Green Chapel, Morgana had not looked like the triumphant conqueror she'd been in the throne room, but more like the frightened orphan she'd once been, the young girl that had hidden her too-fresh grief behind a haughty shroud when Uther had first brought her home. Remembering the madness in her golden eyes disarmed him, and _that_ was something Arthur hated, something that he wished he could hunt down and kill. But he couldn't hate Morgana.

The strange hardness had melted out of Merlin's eyes, and he leaned closer to Arthur, pressing their shoulders together with reassuring warmth. There was still something troubled lurking behind his gaze, but the small smile tucked in the corner of his mouth spoke of relief. It was like he had just wanted to drive Arthur to this edge, to force him to admit this to himself, probably figuring that it could be dealt with best if it was dragged out in the open first.

"I just don't know what to tell my father," Arthur confessed quietly, figuring that if he had revealed so much already, this was almost easy to say.

Merlin sighed a little at the defeat in his voice, but didn't try to spout halfhearted reassurances about how they might even return to find Uther hale and hearty in both body and mind. "Maybe you could just tell him about the Green Knight first," he ventured, "and leave out the part with Morgana until he... feels a bit better."

There was a short silence, and Arthur was sure that they were wondering about the same thing—asking themselves, without much hope, whether Uther would ever recover enough to deal with this new betrayal. The numb silence in his chest cracked a little, allowing a strange, clenching pain to bleed through, and he tried to breathe deeply through it, suddenly so grateful for Merlin's close warmth that it almost hurt.

Not trusting himself to speak, he just nodded in reply, and went back to staring into the flames. The fire didn't seem to dim, crackling merrily although it had been at least an hour since Lancelot and Elyan had come back with the firewood. An absent, unoccupied part of his mind wondered if Merlin was doing that or if it might even be the Green Knight, but somehow he didn't think it was important.

"He trusted her," Arthur found himself saying at last, almost too quietly even for himself to hear. He didn't even try to hide the way his voice cracked—there was no one but Merlin to hear it, after all.

Even more than the sight of Morgana's mad, broken eyes at the Chapel, that was what his mind kept coming back to, the old, gnarled knot of rage and sympathy on his father's behalf. That was what he couldn't work around, what felt like a rusty knife in his gut whenever he thought about it. It didn't make him want to deny what Uther had done—if Morgana had tried to take Arthur's birthright, then their father had certainly deprived her of hers. But no matter how often his mind circled the issue like a hungry crow, he couldn't understand how that had been enough to change her into the person he'd seen at the Chapel, gone brittle and twisted under the weight of hatred and grief.

Merlin gave him a look of mingled sympathy and exasperation, like he knew very well that Arthur was taking the easy way out by making this about Uther rather than himself. He shrugged lightly, the movement rubbing their shoulders together, and said, "You trusted her too."

Arthur said nothing, his jaw clenching on its own accord. Merlin was right, in a way, but for some reason, the issue of his own sense of betrayal was easier to work around. Maybe it was because he was still fighting, still changing and fluctuating like a mountain stream, unlike Uther, who had let himself be frozen into a stupor by his sorrow. Arthur was still _there_.

There was a long, wordless silence. A light breeze ruffled their hair and sent the flames crackling higher, blowing eastwards the way they had come. Although clouds had been racing across the sky when they had still been in the forest, the sky was clear now, the canopy of darkness only disrupted by twinkling stars. The sound of slow rolling thunder drifted along from far away, seeming to shudder through the earth beneath their feet.

Breathing got a little easier after a while, and although Arthur was aware of Merlin's gaze resting on him, he didn't feel watched or even pressed to say anything. His manservant seemed content to just sit in front of the fire with him for as long as he wanted to. And all of a sudden, Arthur was unbearably grateful that save for where their arms and thighs pressed together, Merlin didn't try to touch him. He kept himself almost eerily still, for fear of disrupting Arthur's thoughts, although Arthur saw his hands twitch in his lap like he secretly wanted to reach out and smooth the frown from his brow.

When the sound of thunder rumbled through the silence again, Merlin did move, a slight twitch that pressed him closer to Arthur's side, like he'd suddenly noticed that his foot had fallen asleep. His hand slid over his leg until he could press the warm back of it to Arthur's knee. "Arthur," he said, his voice hushed with infinite gentleness. "Please, let it go. Don't take his grief for yours."

Arthur shook his head, not in denial, but simply because he knew he wouldn't be able to swallow down the hot, jagged lump in his throat even if he tried. But Merlin seemed to understand. He shifted to curl his fingers around Arthur's knee, just a little—not a demand for his attention, but a simple, anchoring touch.

They sat in silence while the moon wandered slowly across the dark sky, the knights snoring in their bedrolls and the fire crackling in front of them, the flames never fading. After a while, the breeze started to carry the scent of rain, and if Arthur strained his ears, he could still hear distant thunder, a faraway storm blowing itself out somewhere in the forest.

The night air was chilly, but Merlin warmed him, and by the time his manservant fell asleep drooling on Arthur's shoulder, Arthur could almost feel the edges of the frozen knot in his chest begin to thaw.

 

  


 

The next morning, Gwaine woke up feeling refreshed and eager to face the day, and it was only when he dunked his head under in a nearby stream that he realized he had thought that the day before would be his last.

From the general direction of their camp, Elyan yelled for him to hurry up and twine flowers into his hair some other time. But Gwaine found himself pausing, his hair dripping wetly into his eyes as he stared sightlessly at the little beech trees surrounding the stream. There was something ironically fitting about his good mood, if he stopped to think about it, since just yesterday, he had thought he would die.

It felt like it had been ages ago that he'd stood before the Green Knight to face his demise, and it already would have seemed like a faraway memory if it hadn't been for the silky pull of green fabric against his stomach. Last night he'd been too tired to do more than put on a new shirt and go to sleep, but bending over to get his hair wet was all it had taken to feel the snug fit of the girdle around his middle again.

It was just as well, he thought a little ruefully as he toweled his hair mostly dry on the way back to the others, that the memory of his breach would stay with him for a while even though he hadn't died after all.

He pushed the thought away with some difficulty, telling himself sternly that Sir Gwaine of Camelot did not dwell on mistakes long past because he didn't make mistakes in the first place. It was no use thinking about what could have been—he had cheated and worn the girdle, the Green Knight had noticed and probably thought him a cowardly fool now, and that was the end of that. He brushed back his hair and tugged a smile on his face when he reached their camp.

"Are we ready to leave?" he asked Merlin, who looked far more awake and alert than he had last night, although there was still a faint flush on his cheeks.

Gwaine had found him and Arthur still asleep this morning, slumped into each other on the log. The other knights had studiously avoided meeting each others' gazes, although Elyan had grudgingly pressed two silver coins into the hand of a very smug Percival—Gwaine suspected that they had had a bet riding on that. Lancelot rolled his eyes at the exchange, but looked hesitantly fond rather than upset when he looked at the sleeping pair. And Leon, well—Gwaine thought that he had probably seen it coming all along. The tall knight had walked off to refill their waterskins grinning from ear to ear.

Merlin and Arthur had looked so peaceful sitting there, Arthur's arm slung protectively over Merlin's shoulders, with Merlin stifling his snores in the prince's neck. They made such a sickeningly adorable picture that Gwaine just _had_ to ruin it, and he had woken Merlin first with a poke to his ribs.

But while Merlin had blushed to the roots of his hair and instantly scooted away from the prince, Gwaine had seen the shy smile nestled in the corner of his mouth. And so he hadn't even tried to stop roaring with laughter, even when Arthur had woken up too and lobbed a whetstone at his head.

"More or less, yeah," Merlin replied, and straightened up from where he'd been securing the luggage on the packhorse's back. All around them, the field was bustling with activity. Percival and Lancelot's boots got sootier by the minute as they carefully scattered the remains of their fire. Elyan was almost done readying the horses, and Gwaine felt a small spark of smug satisfaction when he saw the way Gryngolet kept dodging his attempts to heave his saddle onto his back.

Leon and Arthur were poring over the map again, gesturing occasionally to what looked like hills in the distance. But although the air was clear and not a cloud spoiled the view, there still weren't any villages in sight. The sun had risen in their back, and so they knew at least the rough direction of Camelot's border, but Leon and Arthur still looked unhappy. They were probably wondering how the hell they were supposed to find the squires if they couldn't even find their own location on the map.

Gwaine sauntered over to Elyan, secretly delighted when Gryngolet stopped his fussing to bump his nose into Gwaine's chest in greeting, perhaps a bit harder than another horse would have. Elyan used the stallion's momentary distraction to finally put the saddle on his back and secure the cinch with deft fingers. He let out a sigh of relief when he straightened up again, and Gwaine gave him a wry grin. It felt oddly good to know that he was the only one who was mostly getting along with Gryngolet by now.

Arthur folded the map and waved Leon away to his own horse with a slightly sour expression, apparently none the wiser even after conferring with the other knight. Gwaine saw the prince glance around at the sprawling green fields once more. But then he seemed to accept that they would just have to ride south for now, at least until they encountered some outskirts of civilization again.

The sky was clear and blue above them, not even a single cloud obscuring the horizon—it was as if the thunderstorm that had lulled Gwaine to sleep the night before had never happened. It was a perfect day for traveling, warm but not humid, and he knew they would cover a lot of ground in the next couple of hours, until the heat would make them slow down.

With an ease born of practice, Merlin tied the packhorse's reins to his horse's saddle, and led both of them over to where the others were gathering. A light, summery breeze started up, brushing through Gwaine's almost-dry hair like caressing fingers. Arthur turned back to the treeline once more, his gaze scanning the only slightly darkened spot of grass where their fire had burned. But he seemed satisfied that they hadn't left too many signs of their stay, because after a moment he signaled for them to mount.

Gwaine gripped Gryngolet's saddle, and was just about to wrestle his foot into the stirrup when a branch creaked behind him, a snap-crackle sound of dry wood that sounded deliberate, trying to draw his attention. And sure enough, when they all glanced back at the treeline, a figure detached itself from a looming oak, and the Green Knight stepped out of the shadows.

A jolt of surprise went through Gwaine, tinged with equal parts nervousness and delight, and his hands slid off the saddle on their own accord. The Green Knight was just about the last person he'd expected to see now, and judging from the startled intakes of breath around him, the others were just as astonished.

As if he'd guessed before what their reaction would be, the Green Knight took his time walking towards them, narrowing his eyes a little to block out the brightness of the sun. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw Arthur take a step closer to Merlin with something like distrust; Merlin, on the other hand, looked astonished but happy to see the Green Knight, and turned to Arthur just for long enough to roll his eyes at his protectiveness. But Gwaine couldn't look away from the green eyes that quickly swept over all of them with an easy, almost fond smile, like they were long-lost acquaintances and he had hoped to see them here.

It was the first time Gwaine had seen the man in full sunlight. The candles in Camelot's great hall and the Beltane fires had merely cast him in a diffuse light that flickered restlessly, and even yesterday, the leaves overhead had blocked most of the growing daylight. But now his eyes seemed all the brighter in the sunlight, gleaming ivy leaves peeking out between strands of tousled black hair. Gwaine didn't think that anyone would ever mistake the Green Knight for anything but a forest spirit in broad daylight. There was something otherworldly about him, a shimmer of centuries-old magic drawn close to his form like an almost invisible cloak.

A hawk was perched on his shoulder, its amber eyes staring at all of them in silent assessment. For some strange reason, that hard, unblinking look reminded Gwaine of Grænn's servants—but then the bird took flight in a flurry of feathers, brown and golden wings carrying it up into a nearby tree.

"Greetings," he said, the wreath of ivy rustling in his hair as he dipped his head. It wasn't a bow—but it didn't need to be, Gwaine suddenly thought, with a strange pull of something undefinable in his stomach. This was _his_ realm, and here, he did not need to bow to anyone. "I see that you're prepared to ride home."

Leon mumbled something under his breath about being thoroughly lost in between nonexistent villages, but didn't speak up. The Green Knight took his time looking at all of them, like he felt it had been far too long since he'd last seen them. Gwaine's back straightened on its own accord when the man's eyes came to rest on him, and for the first time he felt a stir of unease—surely he would be called out on what had happened yesterday now.

He could think of no other reason why the Green Knight would seek out their company again. But then the moment was over, too quickly for Gwaine to brace himself, and the green eyes moved on without a hitch. There had been no resentment in his gaze, no accusation and not even a hint of mockery, and Gwaine frowned in surprise when the Green Knight's eyes came to rest on Merlin.

It seemed like it would stay there for a while, and Gwaine couldn't blame Merlin for flushing slightly under that look. The Green Knight's smile was broad and happy, making him look younger than Gwaine had ever seen him, and Merlin simply stared back while his ears slowly went red.

"I came to thank you, Emrys," he said, and that seemed to be enough to rouse Merlin out of his stupor.

He shook his head, hands held up in front of himself in hurried defense. "I didn't even really... do anything," he trailed off, a bit lamely, since he'd probably realized for himself that he _had_ done a lot yesterday. Gwaine found himself grinning, not the least bit surprised that Merlin didn't know what to do with the pride that shone in the Green Knight's eyes.

"Oh, but you did," the Green Knight objected, with a gentle insistence that shut Merlin up again; Gwaine's smile widened when he caught the exasperated look Arthur shot his manservant. "My forest will remember the touch of your mind forever."

Merlin blinked, caught off-guard for a moment, but then he straightened up, meeting the Green Knight's gaze squarely. He looked taller somehow, and Gwaine's mind instantly flashed back to the day before, to the way Merlin's very skin had been glowing with power when he had broken Morgana's control. It seemed oddly fitting that that memory was enough to help Merlin get over his embarrassment, Gwaine thought, and since no one was watching him anyway, he didn't even try to wipe the fond smile off his features.

"I'll remember it too," Merlin replied, quietly, like he was revealing a secret. He probably felt the weight of everybody's gazes on his back, but his shoulders didn't hunch in an instinctive attempt to shield himself. He stood tall and almost proud, as if he didn't even care anymore that his magic was spoken of so openly, and Gwaine suddenly thought that the proud, easy set of his shoulders suited him far better than that curled-in, protective hunch.

The Green Knight's smile became thoughtful, and he considered Merlin for a long moment, his head tilted like that of a curious bird. Then he nodded, apparently satisfied with what he'd seen, accepting the secret for what it was and promising to guard it well in the same moment.

"There is much that I have to do, now that the intruders are gone," the Green Knight said, his voice louder now to include all of them in the conversation. "But first, I think you will be glad to hear that the Man of the Summer Day's daughter is well on her way to safety."

It took Gwaine a long second to make the connection to Ragnelle—it was still odd to hear her father referred to by that strange name—but when he did, Gwaine couldn't help a small sigh of relief. She'd practically chased them off yesterday. Gwaine had been surprised by her uncharacteristic show of confidence, but although he hadn't doubted that she'd find her way home by herself, it was good to hear that she was safe.

"So she escaped the Mercians?" Leon cut in. Gwaine glanced over at him, and saw that Percival looked surprised, like he'd just been about to ask that question too.

"They never saw horse nor hide of her—or you, for that matter." While he had looked gravely proud when he'd been talking to Merlin just a moment ago, the broad smile was back on the Green Knight's features now. His eyes glittered with barely concealed, almost wicked amusement when he turned to Arthur. "You need not worry about Bayard, your majesty."

Gwaine saw Merlin's lips twitch into an absent smile when Arthur didn't even blink at the honorific, but simply accepted the Green Knight's words with a nod. Most of the wariness had left his features, but a part of it was still there, concealed and ready to flare up again at the drop of a hat. He didn't look like he was going to forget how exhausted Merlin had been after yesterday's magical showdown. But at least Gwaine knew that his overprotective streak was in good company now, and he ducked his head to hide his grin.

There was a short silence, a single unspoken question hanging in the air between all of them—Gwaine saw Leon shift his weight uneasily as he waited for someone else to pick up the glaringly obvious loose thread in the conversation. He understood the other knight's discomfort all too well; it wasn't like Gwaine himself was particularly eager to find out just how the Mercian soldiers had come to be "gone," as the Green Knight had put it.

Of course the Green Knight noticed the shift in the atmosphere, and judging from the knowing glint in his eyes, he was all too aware of the question that was running through all of their heads. "The Mercian trespassers," he began slowly, choosing his words with great care, "have been... dealt with. I assure you that none of you has anything to fear from them anymore."

His smile didn't waver, but became brighter somehow, a dangerous, sharp edge that rested lazily in the curl of the Green Knight's lips like a well-hidden knife. Gwaine's breath caught, his heart beating its way up into this throat, and for a moment he was reminded of that moment at the Green Chapel. It had felt like he'd seen the Green Knight clearly for the first time, and it was no different now.

The refined, aristocratic touch to his behavior was gone, with civility just a thin veneer over the fierceness that lurked beneath, more visible now that he was free. And no matter how long Gwaine searched the timeless green depths of his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to think of that ferocity as evil. It was just wild, and Gwaine thought he should probably be worried that it didn't scare him in the slightest, but just sent a pulse of strange, not unfamiliar heat down his spine.

Then he remembered the thunderstorm he had overheard last night, and shivered slightly. Maybe it hadn't just been a fluke of the weather, he thought—maybe the Green Knight had commanded the clouds as he had his animals, calling upon the skies to chase the intruders from his lands.

As if on cue, the Green Knight met Gwaine's gaze for the briefest of moments, and Gwaine got the oddest impression of a sleek predator slinking back out of sight. His smile disappeared slowly, and the unearthly brightness was gone from his eyes when he looked back at Arthur. "But a few frightened soldiers are not the only reason why I wanted to talk to you," he began, his tone hesitant now. "I came to tell you of the Lady Morgana's fate."

Caught completely off-guard, Arthur flinched, and Gwaine felt their collective attention shift towards him. He almost didn't want to look over at the prince, but did it anyway, although discomfort crawled down his spine at the thought that he was forced to overhear this. Next to him, Leon and Lancelot had both begun to examine the highly riveting leather of their boots, and Gwaine saw Percival and Elyan exchange an uncertain look before they returned to glancing back and forth between Arthur and the Green Knight.

"Last night, she was taken in by Iseldir's druids," the Green Knight said. Merlin, who had been staring at Arthur with badly disguised concern, turned to stare at him now, comprehension dawning on his features as if he'd seen that coming. "Iseldir told me that they would like to help her recover what she has lost."

Arthur's throat worked as he swallowed, but he managed a nod. Nobody asked what that meant—whether the druids would help her recover her mind or her magic—but in a way, Gwaine figured they were better off not knowing the details for now. Arthur looked paler than normal in the bright sunlight, but at least his features were composed into an expressionless mask. Granted, Gwaine had stood behind him to hold him back when the Green Knight had taken his revenge on Morgana the day before, but he had felt the jagged spikes of his pain as acutely as if he'd seen his face at the time. He didn't want to intrude into that again.

Nobody seemed to know what to say to that, and Merlin edged a bit closer to the prince—the movement wasn't very subtle, but Arthur didn't even turn to glare at him. His gaze was fixed on the Green Knight, and Gwaine could tell that he wanted to speak but didn't quite know whether to trust his voice.

But the Green Knight seemed to understand what he couldn't ask. "She has not woken yet," he told Arthur, his voice hushed with something like regret—not for Morgana's fate, but for Arthur. "When she does, her body will be weak." He hesitated for a second too long, obviously picking up on the strained undercurrent in the atmosphere, although his tone was not apologetic when he said, "I cannot tell what will become of her mind. But the druids have promised to do their best to nurse her back to health."

 _Physical or mental health?_ Gwaine almost asked, and bit his tongue just in time—now was not the right moment to say things like that, not even in jest.

The Green Knight was watching Arthur carefully, a guarded look in his eyes, but Gwaine was sure that he still didn't regret what he had done to Morgana, and probably never would. As far as Gwaine was concerned, he quite agreed with him on that one—he thought that she'd had it coming when she had decided to enslave a forest spirit against his will. Arthur might not see it that way, though, and Gwaine didn't blame the Green Knight for being on his guard.

A long moment of silence passed, but finally, Arthur nodded again in acknowledgement of what the Green Knight had told him, and Gwaine saw him exchange a strange, almost defeated look with Merlin. But whatever he had seen in his manservant's face must have hardened his resolve, because he took a deep breath, and his voice didn't waver when he said, "Thank you for telling me."

Merlin was blocking Gwaine's view of Arthur's hands, but there was a distinct release of the tension in his shoulders, and Gwaine thought that it looked like the prince had unclenched his fists. At the same time, Merlin let out the breath he'd been holding in a rush, and even the Green Knight looked relieved.

He waited a moment longer, ready to explain more if Arthur were to ask, but he remained silent. Gwaine thought he still looked rather white, although the hardness of resolve in his eyes looked anything but weak. He had obviously come to the decision not to inquire further just now. And Merlin's presence must have soothed him, Gwaine concluded with a private smile, if the way he had edged closer to his prince once more was anything to go by.

After a second, the Green Knight seemed satisfied, and released Arthur from the hold of his fathomless eyes. "And now," he said, his tone brightening as he swept his gaze over all of them once more, as though to reassure himself that they were still listening, "I believe I owe you an explanation."

Gwaine blinked in utter surprise when he found his gaze suddenly caught and held. For a moment he almost glanced over his shoulder to see if there was anyone standing behind him, but the Green Knight was looking only at him, a strange, knowing glint in his eyes. There was the slightest hint of a smile there as well, like he was setting up a game that only he knew the rules to, and Gwaine could have thought of a million reasons why that should have made him wary. But instead it just made him want to saunter up to the man with a grin, spread his hands in invitation, and say something inadvisable like, _Have at it, then._

He shook his head to dispel the thought, and reminded himself sternly that now was not the time for this. He shouldn't even have needed to steer his thoughts towards the silky pull of fabric that he still felt against his stomach with every breath he took, a gentle, not oppressive and yet condemning weight. And he didn't understand why the Green Knight was still looking at him with unconcerned, appreciative kindness, why he wasn't exposing Gwaine as the coward he'd been—as far as Gwaine was concerned, it was _him_ who owed everyone an explanation for his behavior. But something in the man's eyes encouraged him to hold his tongue for now and see what he had to say.

The Green Knight took a step closer, his boots leaving only superficial imprints in the soft, springy grass. He considered him for a moment, swept his gaze up and down Gwaine's form, his eyes resting for a moment on the small, crusted cut at the side of his neck. He looked so calm and at ease that Gwaine almost expected him to fold his hands and gaze off into the distance, like a bard gathering his thoughts to tell his most famed story.

But then the Green Knight took a deep breath, like he had finally laid out what he wanted to say in front of his mind's eye, and said, "I've told you once before that my axe does not tolerate dishonesty."

There was still no hint of accusation in his tone, but the sting of those words was surprisingly acute. Gwaine found himself swallowing hard as they hit home, suddenly all too aware of the fact that everyone else was looking at him too. They didn't know yet what the Green Knight was talking about, but they would. A flush was threatening to creep up his neck, prickly and uncomfortable in its sheer unfamiliarity—he couldn't even remember the last time blood had risen to his face in embarrassment.

He opened his mouth to reply—though whether to explain or to defend himself, he didn't know—but the Green Knight held up a hand to silence him. A wordless insistence brightened his gaze, seeming to entreat Gwaine to just let him speak for now. "And after you beheaded me so bravely on Beltane eve," he continued, "I deemed your honesty worthy of being put to the test."

"Yeah, and I failed," Gwaine almost interrupted, his tongue loosened by the man's tone. It was dangerously close to pride, like he would remember that blow for many years to come as the most magnificent stroke he had ever been felled by.

And somehow, that rankled him even more than the Green Knight's slow, deliberate manner of untangling the web of tests. He didn't quite know where the sudden stir of irritation had come from, but he welcomed it, as it helped him square his shoulders and meet that green gaze head on.

More acutely than ever, Gwaine could feel Merlin's soft, forgiving gaze like a brand on his back. Surely Merlin remembered their conversation in Grænn's backyard—he had to be wondering why Gwaine insisted that he'd failed the test, since he had turned down Merlin's offered help before. Somehow, Gwaine was glad that his back was turned to him; he didn't want to see Merlin's face when he finally found out that Gwaine had broken his word after all.

But the Green Knight just shook his head, unfazed by the belligerence in Gwaine's voice. "You misunderstand me," he said calmly. "Your honesty was tested even before you faced my blade yesterday. At the Chapel, you merely received the results."

That took the wind out of Gwaine's sails. For a long moment he simply held the Green Knight's gaze, waiting for him to continue, but it seemed like he wanted to give those words a bit of time to sink in. A fond, enigmatic smile was tucked into the corner of his mouth, reminding Gwaine oddly of someone who was watching a well-loved friend come to a difficult conclusion.

Well, he didn't feel like the confused fog in his head would lift any time soon. But Merlin gasped suddenly, and Gwaine glanced at him before he could think better of it. His eyes went wide as something seemed to click in his head, and he looked from the Green Knight to Gwaine and back again.

"I believe it is time to clear up the secret identity," the Green Knight said, and Gwaine saw that he'd also noticed Merlin's realization. His smile grew into a grin when he turned to Gwaine again, like he secretly enjoyed the puzzled expression on his face, and he declared, "I was Grænn."

Silence followed the words, only broken by the sounds of the forest, rustling leaves and faraway twitters of birds. Then Elyan let out a sound halfway between a gasp and an incredulous laugh, disbelief written plainly across his features—he exchanged a stunned glance with Percival, and Gwaine suddenly remembered that the two of them had been at Grænn's house for more than just three days. Leon's eyebrows wandered towards his hairline, but he looked wary rather than surprised, and Lancelot didn't even bother with either emotion. He just exchanged a questioning glance with Merlin as though to make sure that he'd heard that correctly.

The Green Knight's eyes twinkled with amusement, like he had expected this kind of reaction. Slowly, he spread his hands at his sides, palms facing the sky—it looked a bit like the gesture he had used yesterday to trap them. But this time, no sturdy grass encased their boots, and no thorny twines shot up from the ground to restrain them.

He took a deep breath that seemed to be echoed by the forest. Behind him, a gust of wind billowed out into the trees, shaking loose twigs and leaves from their branches, and in barely a couple of seconds, the Green Knight's appearance changed. His clothes seemed to melt and flow into the light and dark browns that made up the hunting gear that Gwaine had gotten so used to seeing on their host. The axe disappeared, as did the ivy, and suddenly his hair was red and disheveled like he'd just come back from a hunt. Even his features blurred like a pane of glass that was breathed on, transforming into Grænn's familiar face.

High up in a tree, mostly hidden by leafy branches, the hawk let out a shrill cry as though it recognized its master's different form. Red hair glinted in the sunlight when the Green Knight glanced up at the bird, and his smile was wide and familiarly jovial when he turned to look at them again. His eyes were the only thing that hadn't changed. They were still ageless and green and secretly amused.

Percival and Elyan wore matching expressions of disbelief, their mouths slightly open, and Gwaine half expected them to rub their eyes to make sure they weren't deceived. Almost at the same time, Leon and Lancelot both sighed, a bit wearily, like this new magical occurrence was just one more of those things that they would one day tell their grandchildren about.

Merlin seemed to be concealing a smile of his own, and to Gwaine's surprise, Arthur didn't look all that astonished either. He merely exchanged a glance with his manservant, and Gwaine thought that Merlin had probably found out first and told the prince immediately. Despite the situation, he felt the oddest urge to walk over to Merlin and clap him on the back, simply because this was a secret he had shared with someone.

"Oh, don't look so surprised," the Green Knight said in Grænn's voice, cheerful as a court jester who had just performed his cleverest trick. He breathed out, his shoulders drooping, and suddenly he was himself again, black-haired and fair-faced, watching all of them flinch at the sudden change.

Gwaine realized that his mouth was open too, and he closed it with some difficulty. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have been quite this surprised. The man was an ethereal entity after all, in possession of a kind of magic that Gwaine had never encountered before, and changing his own appearance was probably easy for him.

"I was Grænn," the Green Knight repeated, turning to Gwaine once more, and Gwaine suddenly remembered that he'd been in the middle of explaining something. He shifted his attention back to the matter at hand, pushing the whole thing with Grænn to the back of his mind. He could always think about it later—right now, he needed to listen.

"My disguise was important for finishing your test," the Green Knight explained. "But I also wanted to offer you a reprieve before you had to face the witch. I knew that some of you needed rest."

His gaze flickered to Merlin for a moment, looking almost apologetic. For the first time, Gwaine found himself wondering if he knew how strangely ill Merlin had been before they'd reached the mansion. And well, he probably had—the forest _was_ him, after all, and he was bound to have noticed.

"To test your honesty, I had to enlist the help of the Man of the Summer Day's daughter," the Green Knight continued after a short pause. Gwaine hurriedly refocused his thoughts on the present—now that he was finally getting an explanation, he didn't want to miss it. "And Dame Ragnelle ended up playing her part quite well."

Gwaine blinked at the ancient honorific, but didn't comment on it. Something was stirring at the very back of his mind, a faraway realization that needed just a bit more time to unfurl. It was all trying to fit into the bigger picture in his head, but he couldn't quite put all of the pieces together just yet.

"You remember our game, Sir Gwaine, do you not?" he asked, and smiled when Gwaine gave him a puzzled look. Now that the Green Knight mentioned it, he _did_ remember the game—but he had hardly spared a thought to it ever since they had left Grænn's house. He had thought it had just been an idle pastime—although that hadn't lessened the sting of his own broken promise.

But the Green Knight was still talking, even as a couple of things started to fall into place in Gwaine's head. "We agreed to exchange our winnings at the end of each day, and of course you had to have something you could win in the first place—"

"You told Ragnelle to kiss me!" Gwaine interrupted, more loudly than he'd intended, in his sudden astonishment. He stared at the Green Knight in stunned surprise, and wondered why he hadn't realized that before—it seemed too easy all of a sudden, now that he had been given the final, vital puzzle piece.

It all made sense now—Ragnelle's strange behavior, the kisses she'd given him, her reluctance... Of course she'd practically been squirming with discomfort. He wasn't all that surprised to find out that she hadn't really _wanted_ to kiss him; he had deduced that much at the mansion. The only thing he hadn't known until now was why she'd done it anyway—but well, if a powerful forest spirit asked for your help, you probably couldn't really refuse.

Suddenly Gwaine found himself remembering that last evening, and the insistent, silent message in Ragnelle's gaze when she'd given him her last kiss. And the girdle, Gwaine suddenly thought, and felt his stomach sink. He held the Green Knight's calm gaze, and wondered if the other man knew what he was thinking of right now, if he knew that Ragnelle had probably gone behind his back to give him the means to protect himself. Sure, he had told her to kiss him, but the girdle must have been given of Ragnelle's own free will. Maybe she'd known that he would have to face certain death the next day.

"I regret that she was scared of what I really am," the Green Knight said quietly, startling Gwaine out of his thoughts. It took him a moment to remember that they'd been talking about Ragnelle in the first place. "But I had no choice. I had to ask for her help. I only hope that, had she known of my situation, she would not have held it against me."

From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw Merlin nod absently, like he was remembering something he'd long since discarded. Arthur was frowning, trying to keep up with the load of new information that was dumped on him, but he didn't look completely puzzled—Merlin had probably told him enough to understand this too, and he just needed a moment to put it all together. On Gwaine's other side, Percival seemed unaware of Elyan's cautious gaze resting on him, and stared at the Green Knight with something close to resentment. Gwaine knew that _he_ , at least, wouldn't stop holding this against him any time soon.

Gwaine shifted his gaze to the Green Knight again, a slow, cold feeling creeping into his stomach. He didn't seem to want to mention it, perhaps out of some misplaced courtesy—but Gwaine found that he would have preferred to have the matter out in the open at last. So it fell to him to speak of it, to mention his broken promise; and well, he thought, with unfamiliar bitterness, it was oddly fitting that he had to humiliate himself in front of the others to find closure.

But maybe they wouldn't even be all that surprised—maybe they had seen it coming all along. None of them had seemed to take him seriously ever since he'd accepted the Green Knight's challenge, after all. Perhaps they'd even outright counted on him to break his word after all, thinking that he was too selfish a knight to keep a promise.

The thought was enough to spur him into action, and once the decision was made, it wasn't even all that hard to speak anymore. Instinctively, Gwaine squared his stance, as though preparing to face the Green Knight's axe once more. He took a deep, steadying breath, and declared, almost belligerently, "I broke my word."

The Green Knight's gaze refocused on him, intense and piercing, like an antiquarian of jewels might examine a new gem in his collection. There was a short, befuddled silence when Gwaine felt everyone's attention shift to him, felt the surprise in Lancelot and Arthur's expressions and the sympathetic unease in Merlin's as though he could see them. But he didn't look away from the Green Knight, holding his head as high as he still dared, and barely resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest in self-defense.

"You did," the Green Knight agreed at last. He let out a sigh, like he had secretly hoped that Gwaine would let the matter rest. "But, Sir Gwaine—"

Gwaine held up a hand to silence him, vaguely surprised at himself—the look in the Green Knight's eyes was almost entreating, instead of accusing, like he was about to defend Gwaine against his own words. "No," he said, and was relieved when his voice still came out steady. "I meant— I didn't just cheat my way out of our bargain. I also broke my word to Grænn."

The Green Knight blinked as surprise flickered across his face, and Gwaine almost cringed as he waited for the realization to sink in. His stomach twisted like his skin resented the silky touch of the girdle, although it was no use—he couldn't take his words back now. He could only wait for the disappointment that would cloud the Green Knight's eyes in a second.

But then his features broke out into another smile, wide and almost proud, as if he hadn't expected Gwaine to tell him that, but was glad that he had. "Oh, did you?" he asked, cocking his head as though to examine Gwaine from a different angle. His eyes had gone narrow, but instead of shocked or condemning, he looked _amused_ , of all things. "He's a forgiving fellow, I'm sure he wouldn't hold it against you."

Frustration bubbling up in him, Gwaine shook his head, and resisted the urge to rake his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He was trying to explain what he'd done, and the Green Knight just _smiled_ at him with an expression of serene cheer.

He took a deep breath to steady himself once more. "Please don't hold it against Ragnelle," he said—he hated to rat her out like this, but it was the only way to make the Green Knight understand. "I'm sure she didn't think of your orders or of the game at all—she only wanted to help me." Swallowing, he brought up a hand to rest it on his middle, and felt the green fabric's whisper-soft touch on his skin beneath his tunic. "She was the one who gave me this girdle"

"But of _course_ she did," the Green Knight exclaimed, looking like he'd just barely managed to wait for Gwaine to finish before reassuring him. "She was acting on my orders even then." His smile widened when he saw Gwaine's flabbergasted expression, and he took a step closer, kind insistence in his eyes. "Don't you see, Sir Gwaine? Forwarding her reluctant affections to me was not difficult for you, but I wanted to see if you would also hand over the means to save your own life."

And that was precisely where he'd failed, Gwaine thought, and repressed the urge to seize the Green Knight's shoulders and shake him until that damned _grin_ slipped off his face and he finally gave Gwaine the dressing-down he deserved. The fact that the Green Knight had _known_ about the girdle right from the start just made it worse—didn't he realize that Gwaine had betrayed him to save his hide?

His stomach roiling, Gwaine subsided into frustrated silence. He had no idea what else to say to get the Green Knight to understand his betrayal, and in an unaffected, faraway corner of his mind, something about the situation struck him as supremely ironic. Not too long ago, he would have taken the easy way out with a cocky grin, not even _thinking_ about explaining his actions. But now he was outright insisting to be judged, and found himself confused and irritated, now that he was refused the punishment he thought he deserved.

The Green Knight watched him, head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowed in thought. The infuriating smile was still there, but it had dimmed with pensiveness—he was most likely trying to think of a way to absolve Gwaine of his guilt. Because it _was_ guilt that crawled down his spine in a sick slide and prickled on the shallow cut in his neck. And he briefly thought that if anyone had told him a few months ago just how sharp and acute that feeling could be, his younger self would have laughed out loud.

Finally, the Green Knight straightened up, and captured Gwaine's gaze with his own. His eyes were still calm and untroubled, but now there was a threat of hardness there as well, and Gwaine knew that it was now the Green Knight's turn to try to convince him. "You broke your promise on the last day," he said, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "But you were true to your word the two days before."

For a moment, Gwaine couldn't do anything but stare back at him, at the strands of black hair that were stirred by a gentle breeze, catching on the lush, dark ivy leaves. Then confusion trickled in, doing nothing to appease the irritation that was simmering just out of reach in his mind.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because the Green Knight let out a soft chuckle and shook his head as if to lament Gwaine's slowness. "Did you not wonder why my first two blows never harmed you, and why the last one only grazed your neck?"

"What?" Gwaine said faintly, and almost reached up to cover the shallow wound. It didn't even hurt anymore, although he still remembered the shockingly vivid streak of red that it had left on the axe's shining blade. He thought back to the white-silver flash of metal through the air—the Green Knight was right, he _had_ dealt out three blows, but Gwaine had no idea what that meant now. "I thought— I flinched back, and then you feinted once, and the girdle—"

"The girdle," the Green Knight interrupted, his voice gentle yet decisive, "is no more in possession of magic than you are, my friend. It was your own honesty that saved you, nothing more and nothing less."

 _But I just_ told you _that I broke my damned word_ , Gwaine thought, but didn't say aloud. It didn't help that he could see Merlin's sudden wide smile from the corner of his eye, his blue eyes flickering back and forth between Gwaine and the Green Knight, since he'd obviously realized something that Gwaine still didn't understand.

For once, though, Arthur looked just as confused as he felt, and none of the others seemed to understand either. Gwaine shook his head faintly in an attempt to rearrange his jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order. Ragnelle had given him the girdle, and she must have believed it to be magic—the Green Knight had probably fooled her right along with Gwaine. But if the girdle hadn't protected him after all, he didn't understand why his head hadn't fallen at the Green Knight's feet as it should have, why his blood hadn't stained the ancient soil surrounding the Chapel.

"Three days," the Green Knight said quietly, watching him carefully as though he wanted to see the exact moment when Gwaine wound finally understand. "Three tests of your strength, Sir Gwaine. Three opportunities for you to fail—and three blows to see if you had."

Something was unfurling at the back of his mind, just out of reach. Half-formed thoughts flashed through his mind, too quick to catch and examine from a closer angle, and still he couldn't see the bigger picture that the Green Knight wanted him to see.

"But I did fail," Gwaine said at last, because it seemed like the only thing he _could_ say. His voice came out rough with disuse. "I was dishonest on the last day—"

"You were," the Green Knight cut in, interrupting him once more. His eyes were still soft with understanding, like he knew very well what an ordeal this was for Gwaine, although he clearly wanted to urge him to understand. "But even my axe knew what the outcome would be if you were faced with a conflict between a promise and your love of life."

 _Then why didn't it behead me?_ Gwaine wanted to ask, but didn't. He remained silent, waiting for the last piece of the explanation that would finally make sense even to him, and cursed the small, fluttery feeling that was stirring amidst the numbness in his stomach. It was hope, he knew—hope that maybe _he_ was the one who was wrong, and who needed to be convinced. He tried to shove it to the back of his mind, but judging from the small smile that curled the Green Knight's lips, he had seen it anyway.

"You faced a conflict between a virtue and a passion," he said, his voice quiet, like he didn't want to disturb the slow realization that Gwaine was reaching. "You could have shown me the girdle, but you didn't, because you thought you would die if you gave it away. Your only _failure_ ," and the word came out soft, as if the Green Knight was only using it to finally convince him, "was that you wanted to live."

Silence fell, and Gwaine stared back at him, unable to break eye contact as the realization crashed over him in waves. The green gaze was almost like a physical touch, like gentle hands on his shoulders, and Gwaine could barely hold back a gasp as he finally understood. His will to live had won the battle with his integrity, but while he had just assumed that he hadn't passed the test, it was not a failure in the Green Knight's eyes.

"It wasn't—," he started, but his voice broke even on those two words. Too stunned to even feel embarrassed, he cleared his throat, and tried again. "You're not— angry?"

The Green Knight threw his head back and laughed, the sound ringing across the field like the deep hum of a bell that had been struck. "Of course not!" he exclaimed, grinning so widely that his teeth glinted in the sunlight, and Gwaine was sure that if they'd stood more closely together, he would have been given a hearty slap on the back. "I would only have been angry if you'd thrown your life away for a stupid promise!"

 _But I broke my word_ , Gwaine wanted to say once more, and held the words back simply because he felt like he'd already said them too many times to count. There was something else creeping into his mind as well, a thought that seemed like the logical conclusion of everything he had learned. Still, he was still too flabbergasted to even attempt to sound accusing when he asked, "So you knew all along that I would keep the girdle?"

"Oh, I didn't _know_ ," the Green Knight said, amusement dancing in his eyes. Even the wreath of ivy seemed to pick up on his excitement, the leaves reflecting the sunlight through black strands of hair. "I _hoped_ —hoped that, since you are still new to knighthood, you would realize the limits of the chivalric code. I hoped that through the challenge, you would understand that honesty is more than a casual word to describe an unrealistic ideal."

In other words, that complete honesty wasn't possible, Gwaine thought, no matter how noble or chivalrous someone tried to be. For a giddy, weightless moment, he wanted to turn around and see how Arthur was taking this whole thing, or whether Lancelot felt like objecting.

But he couldn't tear his gaze away from the Green Knight. It was like the weight on his shoulders hadn't quite caught up with everything yet, and was still refusing to be dislodged. But he knew it would, because finally, he understood. He hadn't failed at all. A few months ago, he would never have thought that he'd ever go to such lengths to try to keep a promise, but now he had. He had been true to his word for as long as he'd been able to, until his own life had been at stake, and in the Green Knight's eyes, that had never made him weak.

Slowly, the tension seeped out of his stomach. It seemed like their whole group was releasing breaths they hadn't realized they'd been holding—all of them had been tense and silent, not daring to interrupt, but now they were shaking off their stupor. Merlin beamed at him, looking just as proud as the Green Knight, and Gwaine smiled back, a bit shakily.

"Now, if you just head south," the Green Knight was saying to Arthur, and it took Gwaine a moment to refocus his thoughts, "I am sure you will encounter your lost squires soon enough." From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw Leon's surprised look—judging from the mischief glittering in the Green Knight's eyes, he had heard the other knight's earlier grumbling about their lack of orientation.

The thought made him smile again, and this time it felt more genuine on his face. The coldness in his hands was thawing rapidly, and the feeling was oddly reminiscent of being shaken awake. The tests at Grænn's house, his concealment of the girdle, the Green Knight's three blows—it all seemed to blur into a rapid stream of memories in front of his mind's eye. For the first time, Gwaine realized that it had barely been a day since he'd said goodbye to Grænn. It was almost strange to feel so relieved now, when he hadn't even had the time to really _think_ about his own broken promise, but it had weighed on his mind all the same.

There wasn't anything to be ashamed of, he thought, giddy relief suddenly bubbling up in him—it would probably take some time until he could fully believe that himself, but for now, it helped him push the remnants of guilty frustration to the back of his mind. His next deep breath of summer air felt fresh and new, and a weight seemed to lift from him like a heavy cloak sliding to the ground with a whisper of fabric. He still felt a bit imbalanced, but it was nothing compared to the roiling frustration from before, and he figured he could deal with that.

The Green Knight was still talking, mostly to Arthur, and Gwaine noticed that Leon looked a little happier now that they'd gotten at least some vague directions. His next words were directed at all of them, though, and Gwaine found himself briefly skimmed by his green gaze when he said, "Whenever you decide to return, you will always be welcome here."

He encompassed the woods behind him with a sweeping gesture, and Arthur looked surprised, but nodded anyway. Merlin seemed a bit doubtful, and Gwaine couldn't blame him—something about the forest had made him quite ill, after all. But the Green Knight misread his gaze, because he hurried to add, "Of course that includes you too, Emrys," like he thought that Merlin assumed that he wouldn't be allowed to come back.

Merlin smiled, his eyes gone soft and hesitant as he considered the Green Knight for a long moment. He seemed to choose his words with great care, but Gwaine heard the tentative offer of friendship in his tone when he said, "My name is Merlin."

"Merlin," the Green Knight repeated softly, almost to himself, like he wanted to see how the name felt on his tongue. He looked pensive and a bit surprised, as if he hadn't expected Merlin to even tell him his actual name. But after a moment he visibly refocused his thoughts, and gave Merlin a smile and a little bow. "Very well."

Not at all surprised when Merlin just nodded back and didn't seem to know what to do with that gesture of respect, Gwaine quickly smothered his grin. Next to Merlin, Arthur wasn't quite as fast, and so Merlin caught the tail end of the slightly exasperated, fond look that Gwaine just _knew_ the prince would deny vigorously later. But just now, Merlin didn't seem to feel like teasing him—he just gave him a halfhearted glare.

There was a short silence, and Gwaine physically felt the shift of the Green Knight's attention even before he turned around. This time, though, he didn't simply fix him with his fathomless eyes—with a small, enigmatic smile, the Green Knight crossed the distance between them, the grass quickly bouncing back from the imprints of his boots, and came to stop in front of Gwaine. For a second he looked hesitant, like he wasn't quite sure if he should do what ran through his mind just then.

But before he could ask, the Green Knight seemed to come to a decision. He fixed Gwaine with a strange, pinning look that made his pulse speed up, made him feel like he was put to the test once more, although he'd thought that the time of testing was over for good. Still, Gwaine didn't flinch, and just gazed back at him as calmly as he could, letting him search for whatever he needed to find.

"Know this," the Green Knight said at last, softly now, his voice meant mostly for Gwaine's ears, although both of them knew that the others could hear them too. "I do not hand out my favors lightly, and my respect is not won easily."

 _I know that_ , Gwaine wanted to say, because he _did_ —he had almost let the man chop off his head, after all. But something in the Green Knight's eyes silenced him, and Gwaine thought vaguely that they looked darker somehow, shadowed with something primal and thrilling that reminded him of their encounter at Beltane eve.

"All the same, Sir Gwaine, you have earned both," the Green Knight murmured. He raised his hand, and Gwaine caught a whiff of his unique scent, crushed grass mingling with rich, wet soil and the crisp freshness of early morning mist. "And I want you to have this."

He brushed his fingertips through his hair, and Gwaine didn't quite see what he did—but when the Green Knight lowered his arm again and Gwaine automatically reached out to take whatever he wanted to give him, he was holding a small leaf of ivy.

Gwaine was well aware of the fact that he didn't have a magical bone in his body, and he was fairly certain that the Green Knight knew that too. Nevertheless, he still felt a shock of _something_ when the silky, cool texture touched his palm—it felt a little like waking up after a long sleep to full sunlight. As sharp and bright as the daylight around them, the strange sensation rushed through his veins in a shock of heat, followed closely by soothing coolness.

He must have gasped or made some other sound, because the expectant look on the Green Knight's face transformed into concern. But Gwaine just closed his eyes for a moment to ground himself again, and when he opened them again, the brief dizziness was gone. Relief flashed through the Green Knight's eyes, and for the first time it occurred to Gwaine that he was probably the only non-magical person to ever have held one of his leaves, a tiny piece of his heart.

"Should you ever need my help, you can use this to call for me," the Green Knight told him in a hushed voice. _To call me, not to command me_ , he didn't add, but Gwaine understood anyway, and he couldn't help a surge of fierce pride when he realized that the Green Knight hadn't thought he needed to warn him of that.

Gwaine nodded his thanks, not quite trusting his voice yet, and closed his palm around the leaf, strangely delighted when he felt the tiniest vibration course through its texture. It wasn't _dead_ —the Green Knight might have plucked it from his crown of ivy, but it was clearly still connected to the feral, ageless magic that sustained the forest. It was small, nestling comfortably in the center of his palm, but Gwaine silently promised himself that it would never look as charred and drained as Morgana's leaf had.

He took a deep breath and met the Green Knight's eyes again, trying to convey without words that he knew how precarious this gesture probably felt to him, since at least one of the people who had ever touched his ivy had used it to control him. The Green Knight gave him a crooked smile and a nod, and watched in silence as Gwaine carefully tucked the leaf into his tunic, its slow, living pulse coming to rest close to his heart.

"The same goes for you, you know," Gwaine found himself saying, his tone deliberately light to chase the strange crackle from the air. It wasn't unpleasant, but it sent a thrill through him and warmed his blood, and he knew that he'd do something inadvisable if he didn't lighten the atmosphere, like lean over to breathe in the man's tantalizing smell. "You're always welcome at Camelot too."

Behind him, Arthur let out a quiet snort, but didn't seem to mind that Gwaine was essentially speaking on his behalf. The Green Knight laughed softly, amusement chasing the quiet urgency from his features, and his eyes were coy when he asked, "For what? Another challenge?"

"No," Gwaine said, a giddy flutter erupting in his stomach. Once again he remembered his first true encounter with the Green Knight, the strains of music that had drifted over to them between the Beltane fires, and he finally let himself grin. "For a dance."

 

  


 

The large door to the stables creaked on rusty hinges when Arthur pushed it open, the bleached wood heavy against his arm. Although dusk was descending rapidly, it was still warm with all the sunlight it had soaked up during the day. A sliver of brightness cut through the growing dark, and Arthur slipped through the gap and let the door fall shut behind him, blinking to adjust his eyes to the flickering light.

The familiar, comforting scent of horses enveloped him, straw rustling beneath his feet as he slowly advanced through rows of spacious boxes. Their occupants watched him with dark, soft eyes, their ears perking up with interest. Just like everything in the tiny village, the large barn was plain but tidy, and the horses were well-groomed—a few of them were a bit thin, but none of them looked truly neglected.

Lanterns lined the walls, basking the large hall in their flickering light, and Arthur noticed with satisfaction that each of the candles was encased in glass to prevent sparks from falling to the floor and igniting the straw. He recognized Merlin's horse, dozing in the box next to Gryngolet's—the stallion's white fur reflected the candlelight and made him look like a beacon in the dim light. He looked up when Arthur walked past, a few stray stalks of hay sticking from his muzzle, but snorted in disdain when he saw that the approaching human was not his rider.

Arthur found himself grinning absently as Gryngolet ostentatiously turned his backside to him. To no one's surprise, Gwaine was still at the tavern, heralding the locals with stories of their journey—everyone had already been more than a little tipsy when Arthur had left to check on the horses. Merlin was lucky that he'd excused himself earlier too; with the amounts of wine that were flowing tonight, he would already have been passed out drunk by now.

Not many travelers passed through the cluster of houses at Camelot's border, and Arthur could picture the slack-jawed excitement of the villagers as they listened to the story of their journey. Their eyes merry with wine, Elyan and Leon had joined Gwaine in his storytelling at some point, and Arthur had thought it safe to leave with the knowledge that there would be at least some grain of truth in the stories.

But despite the exaggerated tales of adventure that Gwaine spun for them, Arthur didn't think that he would boast about the dangers of the Green Knight's challenge. He'd been quiet these past few days, withdrawn, although Arthur could tell that it would just be a matter of time until he was his normal, cheerful, brash self again. For a while, he had wondered if he should talk to Gwaine about what had happened to him, maybe commend him on the fact that he had admitted his mistake. But on the other hand, Arthur was fairly sure that Gwaine had recovered enough by now that any and all reassuring words from his prince would be brushed off.

And besides, he had the feeling that the villagers would join in the storytelling with the rumors that had passed through their settlement. The innkeeper had been all too eager to share them with the group of tired travelers that had booked his rooms for the night, and Arthur still didn't quite know what to make of it. It wasn't surprising that the villagers had heard of the strange occurrences near the border—they were situated quite close to Mercia, after all.

The thunderstorm that Arthur had heard on the evening of their escape had apparently raged all night, whipping rain and quite unseasonal amounts of hail through the Green Knight's forest. Many Mercian patrols had found themselves attacked by flocks of hawks and ravens that seemed hell-bent on scratching out their eyes. Huge golden-eyed hunting dogs had slunk through the night like shadows, driving the soldiers out of the forest with their unearthly howls.

But more than the animals' strange behavior, it was the story of the forest's upheaval that mystified the villagers. Earthquakes had shaken the ground all night, and the very trees had unleashed their fury on the intruders, flinging their branches through the icy air as though eager to sink their thorny twigs into human flesh. And in the end the soldiers had fled in a mad rush, desperate to escape the angered forces of nature that were suddenly hell-bent on driving them out of their lands.

The innkeeper hadn't been able to tell him whether any of the Mercians had died that night, but Arthur had the strange feeling that he didn't really want to know. He could still recall the terrible, calculating fury in the Green Knight's eyes when he'd finally been set free, and Arthur found himself shivering slightly at the idea that he had taken his rage out on those who had intruded in his realm. Sure, it hadn't really been the Mercians' fault that Morgana had lured them there, but he wasn't all that sure if the Green Knight felt that way too.

He shook his head slightly to dislodge the thought—at any rate, he would think twice in the future before incurring the wrath of an ancient forest spirit. And at least they had found Gaheris and Dagonet when they'd stumbled across this village after two days of hard, fast riding. They had headed south just like the Green Knight had told them to, through sprawling fields and hilly woods that looked more and more familiar. And Arthur had felt a profound surge of relief when the innkeeper had told them that they'd crossed the border back into Camelot just outside the village.

After all this time, it didn't feel like they were back, not quite yet, but Arthur knew that that would come eventually. And as soon as they completed their journey back to the citadel over the next few days, he would feel more and more at home.

Llamrei seemed to recognize him by the cadence of his steps, because she stuck her head out of her box before he'd even entered her line of sight. Arthur couldn't help but smile when she snorted a soft greeting at him and started nosing at his shirt for hidden treats as soon as he was close enough. She moved aside obligingly when he let himself into her stall, although she wouldn't have had to—her box was the largest in the stable. Arthur suspected that the innkeeper had seen through his disguise, guessed who he really was, and quietly gave his mare the most comfortable place in his barn.

He ran a hand over the shining fur on her back, glad to find it completely dry—someone must have rubbed her down while they'd been herded off into the tavern by the excited innkeeper. But a trained warhorse though she was, Arthur had wanted to make sure that she was well cared for. He had pushed her to her limits, keeping up their speed at a constant fast trot that sped up into a canter whenever they could afford it. Rationally, he knew that a few more days on the road wouldn't matter anymore, now that they were back within Camelot's borders. But he still wanted to get back to his father as soon as possible.

Frowning at the turn his thoughts had taken, Arthur steered them away from that matter and bent down to check Llamrei's legs. The day's ride had been long and hard, and he wanted to make sure that her joints were fine after cantering madly on the dry, rock-littered tracks that had led them here. But there was no swelling he could feel—her legs weren't even particularly warm to the touch. Llamrei lipped at his hair as though to reprimand him for his useless worrying, and Arthur found himself smiling at his horse when he stood up again.

The sound of creaking hinges drew his attention back to the other side of the barn, and he turned around just in time to see Merlin step out of his horse's box. There was hay in his hair and on his shirt, and he hadn't noticed Arthur yet—but it seemed like he'd just checked up on his horse as well.

Arthur watched in silence as Merlin's offered carrot was gingerly taken from his palm and chewed up with a resounding crunch, a smile stealing onto his face without him noticing. It was the horse's fault that Merlin's backside was probably a mass of bruises—Arthur had seen the way he'd bounced helplessly on its back, doing his best to hold on. But he'd still sneaked away into the night to make sure his steed was cared for, and Arthur wasn't quite quick enough to wipe the probably stupid, fond look off his face when Merlin abruptly turned around.

"Arthur," Merlin said, his eyes widening with surprise and delight when he caught sight of him. Arthur schooled his features into a hopefully neutral expression as he stepped out into the stable aisle, but Merlin walked over to him anyway, peeking into Llamrei's stall.

Merlin smiled when Llamrei sniffed at the hand he held out to her in greeting, but there was a tightness around his eyes that Arthur wasn't used to seeing. "I didn't even hear you come in," Merlin said, a little ruefully, not seeming to notice the way Arthur's eyebrows began to pull together in a frown as he tried to catch Merlin's gaze with his own. "I fell asleep in my horse's box."

That explained a lot, Arthur thought, for the first time taking in the tired slump of Merlin's shoulders, the way he was leaning against the door of Llamrei's stall for support. He frowned, moving a little closer to Merlin on instinct. It would be easy to accredit it to the last few days of fast traveling, but if there was one thing Arthur knew about his manservant, it was that one could never be sure of first impressions.

"I think the horses will be glad to return home, too," Merlin mused, oblivious to Arthur's scrutiny as he jerked his head in the general direction of Gwaine's stallion, a smile pulling at his lips. "Gryngolet is getting grouchy. He didn't even accept the apple I tried to give him."

"Gryngolet is always grouchy," Arthur replied absently, distracted by the dark, bruised shadows under Merlin's eyes. They had faded only a little over the past two days, but he'd been so preoccupied with getting back to Camelot that he hadn't quite noticed until now.

Merlin looked exhausted, and not just from the day's ride. He had already looked tired when they'd made camp just outside the forest, but while Arthur had thought that he'd feel better after a good night's sleep, Merlin seemed to need more rest than he was getting. Arthur's frown deepened when he realized that he had no idea what else Merlin might need—food, some of the potions from the bag Gaius had packed for them?—because his manservant had of course neglected to tell him.

"You said I could always ask if I had questions about your magic," Arthur began, careful to keep his tone light and unassuming. If he truly wanted to find out just how fatigued Merlin still was, it wouldn't do to force him onto the defensive and be placated with empty reassurances of how he was _fine_ —Arthur felt like he'd heard enough of that during the past few weeks to last him a lifetime.

"Of course," Merlin replied, finally looking up to meet Arthur's gaze. But even his surprise couldn't quite cover the tiny hint of nervousness in his gaze, and Arthur silently resolved to hunt it down no matter how much Merlin would try to evade him. "Ask me anything."

"In the forest," Arthur said slowly as he moved to lean against the wall next to Merlin, letting their arms brush as though by chance. "When we were at the Chapel—what exactly did you do?"

Merlin pursed his lips, but he didn't look wary or defensive—he just seemed to wonder how best to explain this. Arthur waited, trying not to drum his fingernails on the wood behind him. Patience, he reminded himself sternly; he would coax this out of Merlin, and then he might even learn how to help him regain all of his wiry strength.

"I kind of—," Merlin started, and broke off again, shaking his head as he decided to try a different approach to the topic. "Remember how the forest's magic used to make me all woozy before?"

Arthur's teeth ground together on their own accord. 'Woozy' was one way to put it, but he wasn't as forgiving as his manservant, at least not in this. Of course Merlin had always assured him that the Green Knight's forest hadn't done it on purpose, and that he shouldn't blame the primal magic that had coursed through the lands like blood-filled veins since the advent of time itself. But as far as Arthur was concerned, he still had a bone to pick with the Green Knight about that.

"Well," Merlin said, looking a bit worried by Arthur's expression, and Arthur struggled to smooth his features back into blank curiosity. "I think the druids must have known somehow, because when we met them, Iseldir gave me a leaf—an ivy leaf. And it protected me."

Blinking, Arthur forgot all about telling the Green Knight that, forest spirit or no, his magic couldn't just go around driving his manservant half mad. He remembered the leaf from that one time he'd seen it at Grænn's house, still recalled how it had fluttered to the rumpled sheets between them, gleaming faintly in the candlelight. Merlin had looked so shocked, like he'd completely forgotten about its existence until it had slipped out when Arthur had pulled his tunic over his head.

Merlin gave him a bashful, secretive smile, like he had just thought of the same thing. Their gazes caught and held like a lock clicking into place, and Arthur swallowed, trying to hold on to the vague indignation that he'd felt before. He wanted to hear the whole story of what Merlin had done and what had happened to him, but it was hard to remember that when Merlin _looked_ at him like that, his eyes glittering and dark in the dim light.

"At the Chapel," Merlin said quietly, not breaking Arthur's gaze, "I really had no idea what to do until I remembered the leaf."

Arthur felt himself tense, the warm, weightless feeling draining out of his chest. He swallowed hard and looked away, struggling to keep his features blank. It was something he knew he would remember forever, the creeping terror that had gripped him when Merlin had held up the leaf for a long moment before he'd let it go. He'd had an inkling of what Merlin had been doing then, but somehow, he hadn't thought that Merlin would go through with it until his eyes had turned gold. He never would have thought that he could be that reckless.

"And as soon as I let it go," Merlin continued, his voice hushed, "the forest— um—"

He squirmed a little when Arthur glanced at him again, the tips of his ears reddening, but not with embarrassment. Arthur recognized that shifty look all too well, the way Merlin seemed to find the floor intensely riveting while still trying to sneak glances at him from under his eyelashes.

Arthur forced his teeth not to clench, and absolutely did not notice the deep shadows of Merlin's lashes on his cheeks, dark and velvety in the dim light. "The forest did what, Merlin?" he asked, silently admiring his calm, controlled tone when he really just felt like shaking Merlin back and forth until the truth fell out of him more quickly.

"It needed someone to channel its power," Merlin explained readily. "Without me, it just _was_ , you know?" Arthur didn't, but nodded anyway, unwilling to interrupt. "But as soon as I let it in, it was all too eager to help me. I don't think I could have done it on my own."

"Let it in?" Arthur repeated, his stomach dropping so abruptly that he felt sick. The words came out quieter than before, and finally, Merlin noticed the strain in his voice.

He gave Arthur a quick, startled glance, making a quickly aborted movement as though he'd instinctively reached out to close his fingers around Arthur's wrists, but thought better of it at the last moment. Anxiety flickered over his features, too quickly for Arthur to react, but at least he seemed to understand—Arthur didn't want him to think that it was the subject of magic that frayed his control and made a knot of tension pull tight in his chest.

"Look," Merlin said, somewhat desperately, eager to reassure him, now that he had figured out where this conversation was headed. "I came back, right? Yeah, it overwhelmed me, but then I refocused myself and remembered what I had to do, and it worked out fine!"

"Came _back?_ " Arthur echoed, unable to do anything but repeat Merlin's words back at him while he struggled to understand what he was implying. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears like a war drum, and he knew that he shouldn't feel this cold—it was _over_ , after all, Merlin was still here, and staring at him in shock wouldn't turn back time so Arthur could stop him from doing what he'd done.

"Anyway," Merlin blurted out, apparently deciding that it was better to just get out the rest of his explanation before Arthur could recover enough to shout at him. "I tried to break Morgana's enchantment, but even with the help of the forest it didn't work—I had to find some sort of new focus for it. And so I used my ivy leaf because it seemed like the right thing to do. I wasn't going to control the Green Knight anyway, I just wanted to set him free, and it was the only way."

"Wait," Arthur said, proud of how steady his voice still was when he held up a hand to stop the torrent of words. Merlin subsided into silence, watching him with wide, cautious eyes. In the dim light, it was easy to see how gaunt his face looked, and Arthur silently cursed himself for having been too preoccupied with getting back home to see it until now.

"Let me get this straight," he began, keeping a tight rein on the anger that was beginning to pool in his gut, although it felt so much better than the stunned numbness from before. "You spent two weeks—two _weeks_ —in some half-conscious magical _daze_ until we reached Grænn's house, and then a couple of days later you _invited_ the forest's magic to whisk your mind away because you needed its _help?_ "

His mouth was pressed into a thin, displeased line, but nevertheless, Merlin nodded—and Arthur pushed himself away from the wall with a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a snarl, suddenly needing some distance between them. A tiny voice at the back of his mind told him that he was overreacting, that it wouldn't do to take out his restless frustration on Merlin just because it was better than recalling how he'd shouted Merlin's name at the Chapel, his hope faltering with each second that Merlin's eyes burned gold.

"I can't believe you," Arthur said, fighting to control his voice. He spun around on his heel to face Merlin again, his feet kicking up a cloud of dust from the straw-covered ground. "Tell me, Merlin, do you have a _death wish_ or are you really that stupid?"

Merlin had the gall to look annoyed, and Arthur wrenched his gaze away, paced to the other side of the stable aisle and rested his clenched fist against the door of an empty stall for a moment. His stomach was roiling, and he tried to take deep breaths to quell the feeling, but all he could remember were Merlin's eyes.

They had burned brighter than ever before, and Arthur had hardly dared to blink for fear of missing the moment when they would turn blue again. But the seconds had dragged on, and then the veins in Merlin's arms and hands had begun to glow, his thin frame lit up with raw, centuries-old power as an unearthly shimmer of light collected in the air around him. Arthur had struggled harder than ever against his constraints, shouting Merlin's name over and over in wild, mindless panic. Even when the forest had rendered Merlin near-delirious before, Arthur had not felt this helpless.

"Arthur, you're blowing this way out of proportion," came Merlin's impatient voice from behind him, jolting him out of the memory. "It honestly wasn't as dangerous as you think it was, I had it under control!"

Arthur whirled around, grateful for the surge of anger that helped him push away the tight, trembling feeling in his chest. "Oh, of course!" he snapped, the words echoing through the quietude of the stables. Behind Merlin, Llamrei raised her head with a troubled snort, but Arthur couldn't control his voice right now. "I could see that when you were standing there, looking like you would _implode_ with magic if no one stopped you!"

For a moment, Merlin's expression twitched with surprise, like he hadn't seen that coming. He looked bewildered, staring at Arthur with his mouth half open as he struggled to understand what he'd just said. But then his features closed off again, the scowl firmly back in place as he folded his arms across his chest in a defensive gesture.

"The forest knew what I was doing," he said stubbornly, still refusing to shout back at him like Arthur knew he wanted to. "And anyway," he added, his eyes narrowing, "I don't understand why you're getting so hung up on this. It's over, and it worked, and I never saw _you_ coming up with a better plan anyway."

"A _plan_ ," Arthur repeated, incredulous, and barked out a short, sharp laugh that hurt his throat. " _That_ , Merlin, was not a _plan_. That was you jumping headfirst into danger like the _idiot_ you are, because you have this unshakable belief that your magic can do _anything_ —"

"What?" Merlin cut in, looking torn between disbelief and mounting irritation. He stepped away from the wall as well, as if he needed to face Arthur on more equal ground. "Is that it? Are you just upset because it wasn't _you_ who saved the day, because all that was left for you to do was to run away?"

"Oh, yes," Arthur scoffed, willing away the urge to laugh again, if only at the sheer ridiculousness of the fact that Merlin kept missing his point, "because I'm such a pompous fool that I'll wilt like a _flower_ if my ego isn't inflated by glory and fame at all times—" Merlin just cocked an eyebrow at him, and Arthur realized that that was precisely what his manservant had used to think of him not too long ago, and probably still thought sometimes when he was annoyed with him.

Throwing up his hands in frustration, Arthur barely resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wooden stall to blow off some steam. In her box, Llamrei let out an unhappy snuffle and turned back to the mound of hay that a stablehand had left for her to munch on, presenting her backside to them. It seemed like she had decided to ignore her surroundings until the two pesky humans stopped shouting.

"You will never do anything like that again," Arthur said in a low voice when the urge to hit something had mostly gone away. Merlin's mouth dropped open in indignation, but Arthur didn't let him speak, _couldn't_ allow him to argue right now. "No matter what you think your magic can do, you are _not_ invincible, and I won't—"

The furious spark that lit up Merlin's eyes should have warned him. In barely more than a second, Merlin had closed the space between them and was crowding Arthur back against the empty box, clenched hands on his shoulders and his body a long, hot line of pressure along Arthur's front. He was so close that Arthur could see every tiny flicker of candlelight reflect in Merlin's eyes, pupils blown wide in a thin ring of blue, and his breath brushed Arthur's cheeks in short, sharp bursts.

"This is _not_ about my magic, you pompous, self-righteous— this is about _you!_ " Merlin shouted, his touch like a brand even through Arthur's tunic when he poked a finger into his chest. "And at the Chapel it was about doing the right thing and getting us all out of there, because in case you hadn't _noticed_ , Morgana was going to have you _killed_ , and if you think I was just going to stand by and let that happen—"

The thought seemed to unsettle him just as much as the memory of the Chapel had knocked Arthur off kilter earlier, and he couldn't help the tiny flicker of relief that went through him. No matter how impatient and angry Merlin was right now, Arthur could see fierce possessiveness in his eyes, burning with the absolute, uncompromising conviction that he truly meant what he'd said. He was pressing Arthur back against the wooden stall with most of his weight, so close that Arthur almost imagined he could feel Merlin's heartbeat against his own chest, fluttering wildly in the seconds it took Merlin to regather his focus.

"This was _never_ about me," Merlin said, roughly, like he'd been shouting for the better part of an hour. His eyes reflected the candlelight, blue and dark and swirling with a jumbled mass of conflicting emotions. "Nothing, _nothing_ was ever about proving how _powerful_ I am," he broke off, his face twisting with self-deprecation as though it pained him to even say those words. Something in Arthur's chest tightened in response, but before he could react, Merlin took a deep, shuddering breath, and continued.

"Don't you see that in all the time we've known each other, it was never important that I've been saving your life with _magic?_ " His voice rose helplessly on the last word, a hysterical edge of laughter creeping into his tone, like he still couldn't believe that he even had to spell this out for him. "What _matters_ ," and he shook Arthur, almost gently, "is saving your life at all. What matters is making sure you become king and don't get gored by some magical mythical beast on the way. It was never, _never_ about me."

Silence fell with the abruptness of cracking thunder, ringing in Arthur's ears as if Merlin had yelled at him. He stared at Merlin in numb, mute shock, feeling like his head had been wrapped in cotton wool and his words were taking a long time to reach his ears. There was nothing he could even _think_ of saying, not to that, not when his head was reeling with half-formed thoughts and responses. He couldn't do anything but stand there and hold Merlin's gaze, share his erratic breaths in the small space between them, and watch the way Merlin's throat worked as he swallowed, his trembling fingers digging into Arthur's shoulders, not like he was still holding Arthur there, but like he needed the touch to prop himself up now.

"What makes you so sure?" Arthur asked, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper, and the sound of it made him cringe. It was too raw, too _open_ , but the words wrenched their way out of him anyway, refusing to be pushed back down. "What makes you think that just because it's about me, it can't be about you as well? Do you have any idea how— how _pointless_ it would be without you?"

Merlin stared at him, his eyes startled and almost scared, as if in all his infinite wisdom, he'd never quite thought of that. For a shivery second, Arthur nearly smiled helplessly at the thought, but shoved the urge away. Something was shaking itself loose in his chest, flopping weakly like a newborn fledgling, bleeding a strange ache down into his stomach. It hurt, and Arthur couldn't, _couldn't_ look at Merlin anymore, the need to break his gaze almost overwhelming, but somehow his eyes wouldn't cooperate.

"You looked so far away," he whispered, helpless to stop the way his voice cracked even on those few words, "like you'd disappear if no one held you down, and I couldn't get to you—"

Once more, Merlin's eyes seemed to hover in front of his mind's eye, golden and empty and _gone_ , and his throat closed up completely, mercifully cutting off the jumbled string of words. He swallowed hard, and found himself thinking of that day in front of Sir Ricbert's mansion where Merlin had stood, his surprised eyes awash with power as he'd touched the Green Knight's ivy for the first time. Something should have changed, especially with the long way they had come together—it should have felt different, but just now, Arthur felt just as powerless as he had all those weeks ago.

Abruptly, Merlin's features blurred out of focus, and it took Arthur a moment to realize that he was leaning in, that his hands had moved to cradle Arthur's face with a shaky tenderness that made his stomach twist. Then Merlin pressed his forehead to Arthur's with a long, hitching sigh, letting his eyes slip shut like someone who had traveled a long way and finally found shelter.

 _That was it, wasn't it?_ Merlin's fingers seemed to ask, curling in the short hair at Arthur's temples, _what had you so furious?_ as an unspoken question with the soft touch of Merlin's hair on his forehead. And, _God, Arthur_ , in the trembling outrush of Merlin's breath against his lips, warm and damp in the hush.

Gradually, Arthur felt his breathing slow down and steady, soothed by the body heat that rolled off of Merlin in waves. He closed his fingers around Merlin's wrists, and a small, unoccupied corner of his mind immediately resolved to stuff his manservant full of savory food as soon as possible—Arthur could circle his wrists easily. But for now, he just settled for rubbing soothing circles into Merlin's pulse points with his thumbs, reassured by the fact that Merlin's heart was racing just as much as his own.

The silence settled until it was comfortable, and when it had stretched for long enough, Merlin said shakily, "As if I could _ever_ leave you to fend for yourself."

 _You dense idiot_ , he didn't add, but Arthur heard it anyway, and the relief that spread through him at the unspoken insult to his intelligence was almost enough to startle a laugh from him.

They stayed like that for what felt like a long time, neither of them inclined to move. Arthur closed his eyes, unwilling to question how the loose, shivery thing in his chest seemed relieved that they weren't shouting at each other anymore. Merlin's palms were warm and slightly sweaty on his cheeks, and it seemed so strange to think that he could have this—have _Merlin_ —for the rest of their lives.

Merlin, who cleaned his boots and mended his tunics and channeled the world's very own wild, primal brand of magic when the need arose. Reckless, kind, infuriating Merlin, who hadn't left Arthur's side even when Arthur had wanted him to, who had told him about his magic out of the simple desire to stop hiding and to let Arthur know all of him.

Words built up in his throat, pushing to be let out, and as warm and strangely sleepy as he felt, Arthur couldn't think of a reason to hold them back. It was just an unthinkingly honest murmur, sounding loud in the silence between them, but it still felt oddly meaningful when Arthur said, softly, "I should have knighted you."

Merlin let out a suspiciously wet-sounding, choked noise that could have been a laugh, and Arthur knew that he was thinking of that day so many months ago, when they'd first gathered at the round table and Merlin's presence had felt so unquestionably _right_ on Arthur's side.

He took a deep breath, as if the words were a weight that he had to get used to, like a new, richly embroidered cloak around his shoulders. "Don't be silly," he replied, but Arthur could tell how much strength it cost him to keep his voice steady and his tone light. "I'd collapse under all that armor."

 

  


 

Three days later, even Merlin began to realize that they were back in Camelot. They had crossed the border farther to the east this time, and so Arthur had decided not to take a detour through the Darkling Woods as they'd done at the beginning of their journey. But still, the forests and the sprawling fields were starting to look more and more familiar.

He wasn't even all that saddle-sore anymore, Merlin thought with satisfaction as he rode along behind Arthur, the winding forest track being too narrow for two horses to fit next to each other. His gait was still stiff, and he always sat down very gingerly when they dined in a tavern at the end of a day of traveling, much to the others' amusement. But they weren't going quite as fast anymore, and Merlin found that his riding skills had actually improved, so long as he didn't have to survive a day of racing madly south.

True, even during the past few days, Arthur had been pushing them to go faster than they normally would have, but it was nothing compared to their hasty escape to the border. Merlin knew that he was eager to get back home, not simply because he'd missed the citadel, but because slight fear of what he'd find was nagging at the back of his mind.

He had watched how carefully Arthur had questioned innkeepers and villagers alike about what kinds of rumors had floated their way from the city. But nobody had spoken of a sudden string of bloody executions or a summon of the army, and gradually, Arthur had relaxed into a kind of wary watchfulness. Of course they all knew why the prince was still setting a rather brisk pace, and no one so much as mentioned the lack of breaks. They were eager to get home as well, after all.

Merlin could hear Gwaine humming absently behind him—much to Gryngolet's annoyance, if the indignant snorts and stomps were anything to go by—and grinned at the sound. They were drawing closer and closer to the city, and Merlin half expected to see the tall spires of the citadel through the trees at any minute now. The others knew that this forest was the only thing between them and the castle now, and while an eager restlessness had gripped them, it had of course gone right past Gwaine.

After their escape from the forest, Gwaine had been uncharacteristically withdrawn, not even commenting on the breakneck pace that Arthur had set for them as they'd raced towards the border. While he'd seemed to accept the Green Knight's forgiveness, Merlin knew that something had been knocked loose in his view of himself, something that needed time to realign. Maybe even Gwaine himself hadn't thought he would get so worked up about a broken promise.

But then, on the morning before they'd crossed the border back into Camelot, Gwaine and Merlin had been given the task of preparing the horses together. In the shadow of a tall birch, Merlin had sneaked surreptitious glances at Gwaine's mildly annoyed frown, unsure if he should ask what was wrong.

In the end, he hadn't needed to prod. While Gwaine had coaxed Merlin's horse to open its mouth for the bit of the bridle, he had complained that everyone kept staring at him weirdly and treated him with kid gloves these days. That sounded more like the Gwaine Merlin knew than any of the absent remarks of the past few days, and Merlin turned away to hide his relieved smile.

"They were probably just surprised," Merlin had ventured tentatively, not quite sure how to put his thoughts into words. His horse seemed to notice the seriousness in the air, because it had stood very still as Merlin lifted the saddle up on its back. "That you admitted your mistake, I mean."

Gwaine had considered that for a while, absently scratching behind the horse's ears when it had sniffed at his pockets for treats. "Yeah, well," he'd said at last, and Merlin had looked up just in time to see the familiar broad grin spread across his features. "I'm just a very honorable, courteous man, you know."

Merlin snorted out a surprised laugh, and straightened up from where he'd secured the cinch. For a moment he'd just looked at the amusement twinkling in Gwaine's eyes, already melting into a familiar jaunty exuberance. He'd been dangerously close to saying something utterly sappy, like that he was secretly proud of Gwaine, but instead he just replied, "Of course you are," and that had been the end of that.

He smiled at the memory, listening to Gwaine's humming. That evening, Gwaine had regaled the entire tavern with tales of their journey, and Merlin had been relieved to see him mostly back to being himself. Still, he hadn't been surprised when Gwaine had omitted his involvement with the Green Knight—it seemed like Gwaine wanted to keep that story for himself.

Sunlight was trickling down through the leaves overhead, turning the mossy ground into a patchwork of bright, warm spots and deep shadows. Merlin was grateful for the trees, since the day had dawned so bright and sunny that he'd known they would soon need every patch of shadow to cool down.

Arthur had chased them out of bed with the first light of dawn, insisting sternly that they might reach Camelot in the early afternoon if they would just get their lazy asses moving. Merlin had tried to throw a pillow at him, but Arthur ducked and it hit Leon instead, who had just stuck his head into their room to ask if Arthur had seen the spare map anywhere.

But although they had all yawned and grumbled under their breath when they'd gone down to the tavern for a quick breakfast, Merlin knew that by now the others were just as grateful as he was for the early start. Even beneath the trees, heat was gathering slowly, dust motes and little swarms of insects dancing in each patch of sunlight as though relishing in the warmth. Arthur had already stripped off his jacket, and Merlin dreaded the moment when they would emerge from the cool, shady forest to cover the last of their journey through Camelot's open fields.

Behind him, Percival, Leon, and Lancelot were talking quietly about a new schedule for training, to make up for all the time they'd traipsed through the woods instead of honing their fighting skills. Merlin saw Arthur perk up visibly as he tried to listen in, and smiled—he would never understand how the knights could actually look forward to getting back to training. He'd already been mystified when they had raided Grænn's armory and trained the days away, but at least it had given them something to do to pass the time there.

Merlin strained his ears, but as far as he could tell, Elyan didn't seem to take part in the conversation. He was riding along behind Gwaine, leading the packhorse with him, and Merlin imagined he could feel his pensive gaze resting between his shoulder blades, making his skin itch just a little, although it wasn't an entirely uncomfortable feeling.

But then again, he couldn't blame him. Both Elyan and Percival hadn't said anything about what they'd seen at the Chapel, although Merlin was well aware that they _did_ know about his magic now. They'd probably been just as preoccupied with their hasty return to Camelot as he himself was—or maybe they just didn't know how to bring it up in a casual conversation.

Nevertheless, Merlin had known that they would eventually talk to either him or Arthur, and he hadn't been sure whether to feel relieved or anxious when Elyan had approached him this morning.

Despite the thoughtful, cautious look in his dark eyes, trepidation had gripped Merlin when he'd seen Elyan walking towards him to help him with their luggage. Even though he'd been with them for quite some time, Merlin hadn't really had the chance to get to know him that well. The months of rebuilding the damage done by Morgana's short reign had been too hectic, and then he'd told Arthur about his magic, and everything after that seemed to blur in front of his mind's eye, until the day they had ridden out to the Northern Plains.

The same went for Percival, in a way—and then Merlin had suddenly been forced to reveal his magic to them, because the Mercian soldiers would have found them otherwise. And now there were two knights who knew about him, but who _Merlin_ didn't really know, and while he tried to tell himself that he was just overreacting, it was hard to shake off the lingering anxiety.

They had defended Camelot just as valiantly as the rest of them, they had trained and laughed and gotten drunk with Arthur and the others. But Merlin just hadn't known how they would react, and it had been hard not to just mumble an excuse and push past Elyan this morning on his way down the stairs.

"So, you have magic?" Elyan had asked him, hesitantly, like he didn't quite know how to approach the subject. He'd courteously relieved Merlin of most of the bags he'd been hauling along, carrying them down the narrow staircase with no visible effort.

But he had looked vaguely curious instead of frightened, and so Merlin had done his best to smile through the shiver of nervousness that went through him. "Yes," he'd replied simply, trying to look encouraging, to show that it wasn't anything that Elyan had to be hesitant to talk about with him.

"I figured, after what you did in the forest," Elyan said dryly, probably realizing how stupid his own question had sounded.

He'd reached the ground floor just when Gwaine poked his head into the stairwell to pick up the bags and carry them outside. His easy smile faltered a bit when he caught sight of Merlin's expression, and he'd raised his eyebrows in a silent question—it was clear that he would have made up some excuse to distract Elyan if Merlin needed him to.

Merlin had waved him off, trying to convey that he was grateful for his protective concern, but wanted to face this situation on his own. Gwaine picked up the bags with a last assessing glance at Elyan, and Merlin had used the chance to retrieve their bedrolls from where he'd propped them up last night in a corner of his and Arthur's room.

Elyan had been watching him with a pensive expression when Merlin dragged the first two bedrolls onto the narrow landing. He'd straightened up, flushed and sweaty with exertion, but although he met Elyan's gaze without flinching, the knight took his time carrying the bedrolls downstairs, looking like he was carefully turning over what he wanted to say in his head.

Finally, though, Elyan had stopped to look at him after he'd accepted the next bedroll. His features were cast in shadow by the dim light in the stairwell—there was a tiny window just next to Merlin, but the dawn had not yet crept far enough across the sky to provide more than grayish, thin light. But the cautious concern in Elyan's voice had been unmistakable when he'd asked, "But you're okay now?"

At Merlin's puzzled stare, he shifted a bit uncomfortably, and walked downstairs again to deposit the bedroll next to the other ones. The door to the tavern creaked as Gwaine and Lancelot came in to shoulder their blankets and carry them out to the horses, and Elyan waited until they were gone before he spoke again. "It's just, Percival mentioned this morning how you've been looking kind of tired after the Chapel—"

"Oh, no, I'm fine, really," Merlin interrupted, relieved that he finally understood what Elyan was talking about. The rest of their luggage was piled up on the landing now, and he stared down at it in lieu of meeting the knight's eyes again. He didn't know if Elyan would have seen the small smile that tugged on his mouth in the near-darkness, but he hadn't wanted to risk it.

A hesitant flutter of hope unfurled in his chest, and although Merlin knew better than to let it grow, he couldn't bring himself to push it away. Elyan wouldn't have asked after his health if he'd been wary or even afraid of him now, and if Percival was worried about the shadows under his eyes, he might not see him differently either.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Elyan laughed softly, shaking his head, and hefted up three of the remaining bedrolls while Merlin dragged the last one up over his shoulder. "You, a sorcerer," he said, like he needed to say the words aloud to believe them. "I never would have guessed."

"I'm sneaky like that," Merlin replied absently, distracted by the unbalancing weight of a pile of blankets—the stairs were narrow enough, and he couldn't even really see where he put his feet in the wan early morning light.

Elyan rested a steadying hand on Merlin's shoulder to help him keep his balance, and they slowly walked down the stairs together. Only when they reached the ground floor did it occur to Merlin that he could just have used his magic to lighten his load or steady his footing. But well, considering what they were talking about, he was glad that he hadn't. The flare of gold in his eyes would have been all too visible in the twilight, and he didn't want to scare Elyan off.

Slow realization was dawning in Elyan's eyes by the time they had carried the bedrolls into the tavern for the others to pick up. Merlin deposited his load on the ground with a sigh of relief, pressing both hands to the sting at the small of his back when he straightened up again. The tavern was deserted—not even the innkeeper was up yet, although Merlin suspected that if he woke before they left, he would insist on plying them with field rations, despite the fact that they only had about half a day of traveling ahead of them.

"So it was you all along?" Elyan asked softly, when Percival and Leon had come in to carry the bedrolls outside. "The immortal army—?"

He trailed off expectantly, and it took Merlin a moment to understand what he was asking. "Sort of," he hedged, wishing that his guard hadn't come up at that, because the conversation had been going so well. But he couldn't help the uncertainty that sneaked its way into his tone, because while he wanted to be honest, even _Arthur_ didn't know about the sword that Merlin had hidden away for him, encased in stone.

 _Yet_ , Merlin thought, silently resolving to tell Arthur about it as soon as they had settled back into their usual routine at Camelot, as well as all those other things that they still needed to talk about. Just then, he had tried to think of something to reply, well aware that Elyan was still looking at him. Leon and Percival's boots had been wet with dew and left damp imprints on the floor, and Merlin stared down at them for a moment before he forced himself to meet Elyan's gaze again. "I had... help."

Something about his tone must have told Elyan that he didn't really know how to say that this wasn't anything that he wanted to talk about. He smiled, his teeth gleaming in his dark face, and gave Merlin a nod to show that he understood. Relieved, Merlin had smiled back, perhaps a bit shakily, and the moment had ended when Gwaine had poked his head through the front door and asked why they weren't helping the others with the horses yet.

All in all, that particular conversation had gone far better than Merlin had ever dared to hope it would. He knew that it wasn't the end—he was sure that Percival would soon approach him in the same manner, and Gwaine might ask him to come up with some magical cure for hangovers at some point. But well, he figured he could deal with that.

Ahead of them, the path broadened as the trees stood further and further apart, and Merlin touched his heels to his horse's flanks, urging it to go faster until they caught up with Llamrei. The path looked well-traveled, unlike those they had seen in the Northern Plains; many faded hoof prints covered the ground between the two grooves where carts' wheels had worn down the widening road.

Merlin rode up next to Arthur just when the forest sloped down into a familiar sprawling expanse of pasture and fields. They had reached the city's outlying fields well before the early afternoon, just like Arthur had said they would when he'd woken them in the morning. Meadows of golden crops swayed lazily in a slight breeze, and Merlin saw a couple of farmers at work in their fields, small patches of dark clothes and sunburned skin among their harvest.

Half hidden by the woods that waited for them on the horizon, Merlin could see Camelot's turrets, tiny and glittering in the brilliant sunlight as if in greeting. He spotted the tower that housed Gaius' chambers and smiled at the thought of seeing him again, thinking that the physician had most likely thrown the windows wide open in an attempt to coax a summer breeze into the room.

It had to be stiflingly hot up there, and he doubted that anyone would willingly head up into the towers today. Still, he almost thought he saw guards on patrol on what little he could see of the battlements, and felt his smile widen into a grin with the excitement that suddenly thrummed through him. They would be the first to notice their approach, and by the time they finally rode into the courtyard, clusters of squires, servants and stablehands would have spread the word of their prince's return.

A couple of farmers called out greetings to them as they slowly rode out of the forest and through the fields, but a glance to the right revealed that Arthur probably didn't even hear them—his gaze was fixed on the castle like he'd never seen it before, slowly tracking the reflections of light on the roofs. _Glad to be home?_ Merlin almost asked, but thought better of it when he saw the way Arthur's eyes were scanning the sky.

But there was no smoke darkening the horizon, and even from this distance, the citadel looked just like it always had. Merlin waited, his heart beating a bit faster than usual, and if he hadn't been watching him so closely, he might have missed the moment the tension drained out of Arthur's shoulders.

He released a slow breath, glancing over at Merlin as if to assure himself that he was seeing the same thing, that the castle really did look just like it had on the day they'd left. Merlin beamed at him, all but bouncing in the saddle in his almost childish happiness to see the castle again. Arthur's smile was distracted but genuine, and he gave Merlin a tiny nod, the guarded look in his eyes softening, now that he had found his home just the way he had left it.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by the rapid drum of hoofbeats from behind, and a second later, Gryngolet darted past them in a blur of white and kicked-up dust.

"Race you to the castle!" Gwaine shouted back over his shoulder even as the wind whipped his hair into his face, and Gryngolet put his head down and _ran_ , his muscles bunching under the shining white fur as he raced ahead of them in a whirl of moving legs and a flying white mane.

Percival's huge black warhorse flew past Llamrei's other side, almost close enough to touch. The laughing challenge froze on Gwaine's features as he saw the taller knight spur his horse into a flat-out run, and he turned back around in Gryngolet's saddle, leaning over the white stallion's neck to urge him on.

Merlin's horse shied slightly, but broke into a trot on its own accord, like it wanted to follow its companions but didn't dare startle its inexperienced rider. Then Llamrei was catching up as well, and suddenly Arthur leaned over to tug on Merlin's reins, urging his horse into a faster pace even as Merlin spluttered indignantly and squeezed his knees around its shoulders.

"Come on, Merlin!" Arthur shouted over his shoulder, and Llamrei darted ahead when he loosened her reins, widening her leaps until her hooves didn't seem to touch the ground anymore. Leon and Lancelot rushed past Merlin, Elyan close behind, but at a slower pace to accommodate the packhorse's greater load. "We haven't got all day!"

Gwaine and Percival were already far ahead, clouds of dust billowing in their wake, but Llamrei seemed hell-bent on giving chase. Arthur was laughing when he turned back around in his saddle, and Merlin caught a last glimpse of the cocky exuberance glinting in his eyes, chasing away the somber relief from before.

A laugh burst from his throat as he surrendered himself to his fate and gripped the saddle with both hands, slackening his hold on the reins. His horse let out a surprised snort—as carefully as Merlin had been riding throughout this journey, it probably hadn't expected him to ever let it loose. But then Merlin felt its stride lengthening, and leaned forward to accommodate its movements.

The sun blinded him when he passed Elyan and the packhorse, but he didn't slow down, squeezing his calves around his horse's flanks even harder instead. He barely caught a glimpse of Lancelot's surprised look when Merlin flew past him too, but his horse's full gallop didn't feel so jarring anymore, and he wasn't bouncing helplessly in the saddle as he had before.

Dust stung his eyes, and his knees were beginning to ache with how hard they were gripping his horse's shoulders, but he kept his gaze fixed firmly on Arthur's back, on the sun glinting in his disheveled hair and the chestnut blur of Llamrei's legs. His heart was pounding so hard that he felt it all the way down to his fingertips, and he was grinning like a maniac, he knew, but he couldn't tamper it down even when he tasted the kicked-up sand in his mouth.

He felt securely stuck to the saddle, his hips rolling in time with the rhythm of his horse's leaping canter, not even thinking of slowing down although he knew he would be exhausted by the time they arrived in the courtyard. Percival and Gwaine would most likely spend the rest of the day arguing about who had come in first, and finally resolve to settle the matter with some inadvisable drinking game.

But right now, Merlin simply allowed the exuberant laugh to break free of his throat, the sound immediately torn from his lips by the wind, ducked low over his horse's flying mane to chase the whirl of Llamrei's hooves, and let the fields fly past in a blur of gold and green.


End file.
